The  Pram 
and  the  Sea 


William  A  Ouavie 


St??  S. ».  Bill  ffitbrara 


Nnrth  (Earoltna  §>tate 

Q.H81 
0.26 


CHARLES  R.  SANDERS,  JR. 
Americana-Southeastern  States 
123    Montgomery    Street 
Raleigh,  North  Carolina 


This  book  is  due  on  the  date  indicated 
below  and  is  subject  to  an  overdue  fine 
as  posted  at  the  Circulation  Desk. 


1$ 


i^kj** 


THE  WOEffS  OF 

wiLum  &  iffi 


"In  God's  Out-of-Doors  " 
'The  Poet's  Poet  and  Other  Essays" 

"A  Hero  and  Some  Other  Folk" 

A  Study  in  Current  Social  Theories 

"The  Blessed  Life" 

"Books  and  Life" 

"Eternity  in  the  Heart" 

"The  Prairie  and  the  Sea" 


THE  PRAIRIE 
AND  THE  SEA 


BY 


WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE 


CINCINNATI :   JENNINGS  AND  GRAHAM 
NEW   YORK:    EATON   AND    MAINS 


COPYRIGHT,    1905,    BY 
JENNINGS  AND  GRAHAM 


Only  a  Word  of  Greeting  for  all  Lovers  of  Prairie 
and    Sea,    the    Emerald    Prairie     and    the 
Amethyst  Sea. 


May  these  Lovers  bg+  not  Decreased  but  Increased 
by  the  Reading  of  this  Book,  written  by  One 
of  Themselves. 


~J*&*~ 


1! 


r» 


^ 


I 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Prairie, 19 

The  North  Wind, 59 

I  Saw  a  Bluebird, 63 

A  Walk  in  Late  November,           -  71 

When  the  Frogs  Sing, 91 

The  Spring  Wind, 103 

The  Open  Road, 109 

Sunflowers,       --.....  133 

The  Passing  of  Autumn, 147 

Tree  Pillars, 159 

The  Summer  Wind, 185 

A  December  Spring, 191 

The  Mountains, -  203 

It  is  Raining, -  247 

Bird's-Nesting, -  261 

The  Autumn  Wind,          .....  299 

And  the  Sea, -  305 


LIST  OF 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


TITLE  ARTIST  PAGE 

Folded  Hands  of  Prayer,       -       -       -       -       C.  S.  Parmenter  2 

Wild  Tansy,    -       -       -       -       -       -       -       -  C.S.  Parmenter  3 

Ivy  Pillars, C.  S.  Parmenter  4 

The  Murderous  Wolf,     -       -       -       -       -C.S.  Parmenter  5 

The  Rainbow  Arch,       ------     C.S.  Parmenter  7 

The  Arch  of  Shadow,    -----      -F.J.  Carrier  7 

The  Hills  of  God,    ------       C.W.Boynton  9 

Far  Sailing  Ships,        ------      -       -       -      -  9 

Such  Little  Laddies,       -----       C.W.Boynton  11 

Friends      ---------  C.W.Boynton  11 

Bobwhite,      --------        C.S  Parmenter  12 

A  Hox  ey  Locust  Frond,    -       -       -       -       -  C.S.  Parmenter  13 

The  Wild  Hop  Vine,      -----       C.S. Parmenter  14 

A  Place  of  Rest,    ------       -C.W.Boynton  15 

The  Wayside  Cross,       -----       C.S. Parmenter  17 

The  Voice  of  the  Prairie  Night,  -       -       -  C.S.  Parmenter  19 

Where  Prairie  Touches  Sky,     -       -       -       C.  S.  Parmenter  21 

A  Prairie  Sentinel,     -       -       -       -       -       -C.S.  Parmenter  23 

Sweet  Growing  Things,       -      -      -      -       C.S.  Parmenter  25 

Under  the  Stars,         -       -       -       -       -       -C.S,  Parmenter  26 

Wild  Sweet  Pea,       ------       C.  S.  Parmenter  27 

A  Roadside  Poem,  -       -       -       -       -       -       -C.S.  Parmenter  28 

Wild  Indigo,       - C.S.  Parmenter  29 

In  a  Prairie  Ravine, C.S.  Parmenter  30 

Blue  Stems,        -------       C.  S.  Parmenter  31 

Prairie  Plover,      -       -       -       -       -       -       -C.S.  Parmenter  33 

Blazing  Star,     -------       C.  S.  Parmenter  34 

The  Prairie's  Wings,         -       -       -       -       -  C.S. Parmenter  35 

The  Tack-rabbit, C.  S  Parmenter  3b 

Prairie  Wolves, C.  S.  Parmenter  37 


TITLE  ARTIST  PAGE 

The  Prairie  Chicken,        -       -       -       -       -  C.  S.  Par  merit  er  39 

Prairie-ward,      -------       C.  S.  Parmenter  39 

Lord  of  the  Prairie,    ------  C.  S.  Parmenter  40 

The  Prairie  Lark,    ------       C.  S.  Parmenter  41 

The  Prairie  Lark's  Nest,         -       -       -      -  C.  S.  Parmenter  41 

Compass  Plant,         ------      C.S.  Parmenter  43 

The  Spray  of  a  Prairie  Fountain,       -       -  C.  S.  Parmenter  44 
The  Cottonwood,  a  Lover  of  Prairie 

Streams,          -------        C.  S.  Parmenter  45 

Where  Wild  Strawberries  Grow,        -       -  C.  S.  Parmenter  47 

The  Curlew's  Call,       -       -       -       -       -       C.S.  Parmenter  48 

Indian  Arrows,       -       -      -       -       -       -       -C.S.  Parmenter  49 

Brown-eyed  Susans,        -                                   C.  S.  Parmenter  51 

Prairie  Schooner,    -----------  55 

Prairie  Dogs,       -------       C.W.Boynton  57 

The  Roadway  of  the  Storm,    --------  59 

The  North  Wind,    ----------  bo 

The  North  Wind,        ------  C.W.Boynton  61 

This  the  Bluebird  sang  of,  --------  63 

REST,     -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -  F.  A.  Carrier  65 

Up-Hill,        --------        C.S.  Parmenter  67 

The  Isthmus,        -----------68 

In  Summer's  Prime,         -      -       -       -       -       C.S.  Parmenter  69 

Waiting,    -       - W.A.Quayle  70 

The  Dim  November  Distance,         ------  71 

Late,   Late,  so  Late,         -                                F.  A.  Carrier  73 

When   Winter  Comes,        -       -       -       -       C.S.  Parmenter  75 

Journeying,         ----------  76 

The  Sparrows  have  Found  a  House,    C.W.Boynton  77 

Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water,  -       -  C.  W.  Boynton  78 

Here  Autumn  Weeps,        -                    F.  A.  Carrier  79 
The  Bridge,         ----------81 

Leafless,           ----------  82 

Storm-broken,      -       -       -       -       -       -  C.  S.  Parmenter  83 

Singing,      -------       C.  If '.  Boynton  84 

A  Memory  of  Summer,  C.  S.  Parmenter  85 
The  Shadows  Lengthen, 

C.  S.  Parmenter  87 

Bittersweet,       -       -       C.S.  Parmenter  88 

Builded  Beside  the  Stream,        -       -  89 

Listen,   -      -       -      -       C.  W .  Boynton  91 

Where  the  Frogs  Sing,  C.  IV.  Boynton  93 

Afterwhiles,     -        -        -  F.  A.  Carrier  95 
The  Frog's  Trysting 

Place,        -       -       -      L.M.Pouell  96 

A  Work-day  River,       -  97 
The  Ripples  on  the 

River,                         -      C.  W.  Boynton  98 

The  Frog's  Choir  Loft,  C.  W .  Boynton  99 

Sleeping  Waters,       -----  101 

A  Place  of  Song,    -       -  C.  W .  Boynton  102 
12 


i    && 


^%S 


TITLE  ARTIST  PAGE 

The  Blessed  Blue,    ------      C.  S.  Parmenter  103 

In  the  New  Springtime,     -----  C.  S.  Parmenter  105 

Bottom  Picture,        ------      /f\  ^.  Quay/?     107 

Beneath  the  Drowsy  Trees,    -------         109 

The  Road  to  the  Dying  Day,      -       -       -      C.  S.  ParmenUr  in 
Going?        --------       -  F.  A.  Carrier       113 

Lost  in  the  Woods,    ------      L.M.Powell      114 

Along  a  Mountain  Stream,    -  C.W.Boynton    115 

The  Blessed  Shadow,      ---------     116 

Peace,  -------------         117 

The  Road  to  Yesterday,        -  C.B.Spencer      119 

One  Country  Road,     ------  C.  S.  Parmenter  121 

The  Road  Among  the  Pines,      -       -       -      L.M.Powell      123 
KlLLDEE,       ---------    C.S.  Parmenter  125 

The  Restful  Road,  -      -----      C.S.  Parmenter  12b 

The  Mountain  Road,        -----  C.W.Boynton    129 

A  Group  of  Suns,      ------      C.W.Boynton    131 

Straggling  Sunlight,  -       -       -       -       -  C.  S.  Parmenter  133 

The  Starry  Sky,        ------      C.W.Boynton    135 

Summer  Lamps,       ----------         137 

Watching  the  Sunset,   -----      C.S.  Parmenter  138 

Plagiarists  of  Sunflowers,      -  C.W.Boynton    139 

Relatives  of  the  Sunflower,      -       -       -      C.W.Boynton    140 
A  Sunflower  Forest,   -       -       -       -       -       -  C.S.  Parmenter  141 

Sunlit,     ---------      C.S.  Parmenter  143 

Looking  for  the  Sunflowers,         ------         144 

They  Wish  they  were  Sunflowers, 145 

At  Summer  Noon,        ---------         147 

Melancholy,        -------      F.  A.  Carrier       149 

The  Days  that  are  no  More,  -------         151 

WHEATSTALKS,       -        - C.S.  Parmenter  153 

Where  Summer  Trod, L.M.Powell      155 

13 


TITLE  JT  ARTIST  PAGE 

CROSS  THE   LONELY   HlLLS,  -  -  -  -  "157 

The  Sheaf  of  Wheat,   -.      -       -       C.S.  Parmenter  158 
The  Gateway  of  Coffee-bean 

Pillars, -       -       -       -     159 

Hackberry  Pillar,  -  C.S.  Parmenter  ibi 

Undaunted,      -----       -C.  S.  Parmenter  163 

Through  Winter  Woods,         -  -  164 

A  Gray  Cathedral  Pillar,    -       -C.S.  Parmenter  166 

Hickory   Pillar,     -----      C.  S.  Parmenter  168 

The  Cottonwood  Pillar,       -       -         C.  S*  Parmenter  169 
The  Pine  Pillar,   -----      C.  S.  Parmenter  171 

A  Black  Oak  Pillar,       -       -       -        C.  S.  Parmenter  173 
Tremendous,    ------     C.  S.  Parmenter  174 

A  Sycamore  Pillar,   -  C.  S.  Parmenter  176 

A  Walnut  Pillar,        -  C.  S.  Parmenter  177 

The  Shagbark  Pillar,  -       -         C.  S.  Parmenter  178 

The  Maple  Pillar,       ------   C.  S.  Parmenter  179 

The  Elm  Pillar,        ------       C.  S.  Parmenter  182 

The  White  Oak  Pillar,    -----   C.  S.  Parmenter  183 

A  Redwood  Pillar,     ------       John  Davis  184 

Answering  to  the  Summer  Wind,         -       -   C.  S.  Parmenter  185 
Where  Summer  Winds  Tarry,    -       -  C.W.Boynton    187 

The  Summer  Wind,    -       -       -       -       -       -      -       -       -       -    189 

A  Spring  in  June,    ----------         191 

Hearkening  to  the  Sunlight,     -       -       -      C.  S.  Parmenter  193 
The  Bluejay,  -------    C.S.  Parmenter  195 

When  May  is  Here,         ---------     196 

Tn  e  Sentinels  of  the  Stream,       -       -       -   W.A.Quayle      197 
A  Winter  Tent,        ------      W.  A.Quayle      198 

Where  I  Watched  the  Gathering  Storm,        -       -       -         199 
The  Redbird,        -------      C.S.  Parmenter  200 

The  Lonely  Road,        ---------         201 

Wind-blown,         -------       -  202 

A  Mountain  Sheep,     ------   L.L.Dvche         203 

The  Climbing  Mountain,     -       -       -       -       C.  W.  Boynton    205 

Purple  Peaks  Remote,       -----   C.  W.  Boynton   207 

Whence  Cometh  Help,   -----      C.  W.  Boynton    208 

The  Summons  of  the  Mountains,        -       -   C.  W.  Boynton    210 
The  Cooling  Mountains,     -  C.  W.  Boynton   211 

A  Vagabond  Stream,     ------    C.W.Boynton    212 

The  Sublime  Mountains,     -  C.W.Boynton   214 

Part  Mountain  and  Part  Cloud,  -       -      -  C.  W.  Boynton   215 


TITLE  ARTIST  PAGE 

Where  Winter  Lasts,     -----      C.W.Boynton   217 

The  Torture  of  the  Mountains,        -       -   C.W.Boynton   218 
The  Clamoring  Stream,         -  C.W.Boynton   221 

Stepping  Stones  to  Higher  Things,      -       -  C.W.Boynton   223 
Mountain  Born,        ------      C.  W.  Boynton   225 

Tahoe  Bound,         -       -       -       -       -       -       -CIV.  Boynton    227 

Float  Double,  Mount  and  Shadow,         -      C  II'.  Boynton   228 
The  Rugged  Rocks,      ------   C.  W.  Boynton    231 

A  Moment's  Quiet,   ------      C.  IV.  Boynton    233 

The  Ouzel's  Haunt,  ------   C.W.Boynton   234 

A  Golden  Eagle,        -       -       -       -       -       -      C.  S.  Parmenter  236 

A  Placid  River,      --------  .  237 

Mountain  Poppies,    ------      CIV.  Boynton    238 

Orchestral  Music,       ------   C.W.Boynton    239 

A  Mountain  Gateway,    ---------     241 

Asleep,        ---------       ___        243 

Bannered  with  Clouds,  -  -  IV.  S.  Grim         244 

Moonlight,       -----------        245 

The  Eternal  Mountains,     -  C.W.Boynton   24b 

Dark,   --------  -  F.  A.  Carrier       247 

To-day,     -----  -       -       -       CS.  Parmenter  249 

Ready  to  Rain,       ----------         251 

It  is  Raining,       -----------     252 

The  Careless  Cattle,         --------         255 

Getting  Ready  for  Rain,       -  -  25b 

Rain  on  the  Roof,         ------    Grace  Medes      257 

Raining  Vet!        -----------    258 

Yesterday,         --------   Grace  Medes      259 

Forever,  ---------      C  If.  Boynton   2bo 

A  Bird's  Nest  in  Bloom,      -----   C.W.Boynton   ibi 

Ready  for  the  Birds,        -       -       -       -       -      CS.  Parmenter  263 

This  Nest  is  Taken,    ------  C  S.  Parmenter  265 

I  Hear  a  Catbird  Call,    -----       C.  S.  Parmenter  2bb 

One  Lone  Leaf,      -       -       -       -       -       -       -.CS.  Parmenter  2b7 


m 


ARTIST  PAGE 

TITLE  T.  I  O 

.  .       .       -       C.S.  Parmenter  208 
Empty,     ------  ^  270 

Here  Swallows  Skim,  -       -       -       -       -       -       "      '  .,,    ' 

The  Mo«™  Dovh-s  Nbst.  -      -      -      CS  P«=  2 
Forenoon, ------  ^  2 

1%f::i7nJkd™'  .  .  c.5.p^^  277 

£         p™  -       -       -       -       C.S.  Parmenter  279 

This  Poem,     "       "       "  -----    C.  5.  Parmenter  280 

Peekaboo-       -       -       -  _  . /w^,-  2g3 

Noting  but  Leaves,  -       C.  *•  £«-*» £  286 

_       _       _       „       _     .       .       .       .       -C.S.  Parmenter  289 

Where  Late  the  Sweet  Bird  Sung,    -       -C.S  Parmenter  291 
Found  on  a  Hedgerow,    -----      C.S.  Parmenter  292 

This  Wren's  Nest,       -----       -  C.S.  Parmenter  293 

The^Iewee'sNest,  -----       C-SParme «ter  294 

A  Blackbird's  Nest,      -  -       -       -  C.  S  Parmenter  295 

Ar^nTATPH      -------       C.S.  Parmenter  29b 

1nGOrioleNest, -       -C-S.Parmen  ter  297 

Hummingbird's  Nest,  C.  S  Parmenter  297 

The  Winter  Nest,  -    C.  S.  Parmenter  298 

Moaning,       -----  "     .  ~      ". 

Sad  Autumn,   -       -       -  "       -F.  A.  Cornet        301 

The  Autumn  Wind,     -       -       -       -       -       "      "      "  -J  J 

Where  Sea  Cliffs  Tower,  -       -       -      Joseph  Taggart  305 

"Break,  Break,  Break,"  -    T.Fdben  307 

A  Brave  Anchor,        -  -       -       -       J   '  Al9ruayle  f  f^ 

The  Sea  Wind,       -       -  "   Joseph  Taggart  30 

The  Fretful  Sea,      -       -  -      J^ph  Taggart  313 

A  Sea  Sentinel,      -       -       -  -       -       -%W.8.Grun         315 

A  Pathway  of  the  Sea,    -----  31 

Sea  Riot,    -----  "       "    r,"     ,"      "         \\l 

Past  a  Headland  of  the  Sea,       -       -  Lloyd  Medes      318 

SeaGulls,        -       -       -  "    %'*-01u»U     \\\ 

The  Restful  Sea,      -       -       -  -       J-Flhe"      .      321 

EbbTide,    -----  -    *'*$"*U     lit 

The  Infinite  Sea,      ------       T.Mben      .       325 

A  Sad  Sea  Cliff,    -  -    W.A.Qu^U     328 

The  Sunset  Sea,  "f".         33* 

Outward  Bound,    -------    f  J°J^  Jf"*«      333 

Rejoicing  in  the  Sea,      -       -  »  •  ■' ■  Quayle     33+ 

Ribs  of  Wreck,         -       -       -       -       -       -     -        "       "  335 

The  Bewildered  Sea,        -       -  -       -      Joseph  Taggart  337 

At  Anchor,      --------   Joseph  Taggart  339 

The  Answer  to  the  Sea  Wind,    -       -       -       "       "       ~       ''34° 
The  Fisher  Fleet,        -----       -   W.  A.  Quayle     Z\\ 

The  Whirlpool  Waters,       -       -       -       -       -       -       "       -     342 

Conqueror  of  the  Sea,       -----    W.  A.  Quayle     343 

16 


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THE  WAYSIDE  CROSS 


THE  PRAIRIE 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE    PRAIRIE    NIGHT 


THE  PRAIRIE 

Prairie  is  a  French  word  meaning  meadow. 
Those    ever-going    voyageurs,    sighting    a    grass 
'plot   fenced   only  with   the   sky,  thought   of   the 
landscape  of  their  native  land,  and  called  the  far, 
ajreen    reaches,    meadow.      What    trivialities    the 
^real    French    prairies   are,    diminutive   as   a   play- 
thing !     What  dignitaries  the  American  prairies 
are^JUmust  always  think  them  among  the  larger 
fsions  of  our  world,  and  pity  such  as  have  not 
seen  them. 

-To  my  thinking,  prairie  is  a  happy  word, 
tWigh  whether  it  is  or  not  I  can  not  with 
any  degree  of  certainty  tell,  because  names 
borrow  fascinations.  Ruth  is  a  woman  name 
I  never  can  pronounce  or  hear  without  a  sense 
of  poetry,  but  am  never  sure  whether  the  name's  self  is  pos- 
sessor of  the  poetry,  or  whether  that  first  sweet  gleaner  in 
Boaz's  barley-field  has  not,  as  by  a  chrysm,  set  that  name 
among  the  subtle  poetries  along  with  the  moonlight  and 
dusk  and  the  whip-poor-will  and  the  fling  of  marching 
shadow  across  a  dial  and  the  tropic  glow  of  a  dandelion  in 
the  advent  of  the  Spring.  But  so,  Ruth,  with  me,  stands 
for  poetry;  and  her  name  is  sweet  and  she  sad,  with  her 
bare  feet  trampling  the  stubble  behind  the  reapers,  and  her 
tawny  fingers,  with  woman's  suppleness,  catching  at  the 
forgotten  barley-heads,— Ruth  is  among  the  names  to  cast  a 
spell  on  such  as  love  to  dream.  But  whether  her  name  or 
she,  who  knows,  and  what  matters?  And  in  like  quandary 
I  find  myself  touching  this  word  Prairie.  Is  it  in  its  own 
'  23 


right  fascinative,  or  in  the  right  of  that  far  reach  of 
emerald  which  suffers  itself  to  wear  the  name?  I  remain 
agnostic  here.  In  any  case,  the  name  is  my  delight.  My 
lips  refuse  to  hurry  when  they  touch  this  word,  but  fondle 
it,  lover-wise,  lingering  as  loath  to  say  good-bye;  pronounc- 
ing it  Prai-rie,  holding  on  the  initial  syllable  as  if  some 
musical  hold  were  written  there. 

Since  growing  to  know  the  ancestry  of  words,  and  being, 
in  consequence,  interested  in  them — for  words  are  cameos 
carven  from  precious  stones,  now  lost  to  acquisition,  and 
with  hands  slightly  skilled  in  artistry — I  have  inly  resented 
that  prairie  was  not  an  Indian  word.  It  should  have  been, 
and  sounds  as  if  it  might  have  been.  But  the  one  thing 
the  Indian  came  nearer  owning  than  any  other,  was  the 
prairie.  He  cast  his  shadow  over  that  as  the  hawk  did  or 
the  buffalo.  He  and  his  inseparable  pony  dashed  along  it 
like  an  arrow.  And  not  to  have  an  Indian  name  brood 
over  it  forever  interferes  with  the  logic  of  poetry.  Yet 
this  is  justice,  after  all.  Nothing  of  a  roomy  fact  in 
America  bears  an  Indian  name.  Places  do.  Facts  do  not. 
The  one  thing  we  had,  Europeans  did  not  have,  our  green 
sward  wide  enough  to  fill  in  the  space  from  sky  to  sky,  the 
Indian  was  too  indolent  and  useless  to  christen.  This  big 
continent  (O,  the  pity  of  it!)  bears  an  alien  name.  And 
our  American  witchery  we  may  be  said  to  own  apart  from 
all  this  world  beside,  foreigners  must  fetch  a  name  for. 
Indians,  you  have  lost  your  chance.  The  Prairies  bear  an 
alien  name.  We  have  called  tarn  and  mountain  and  river 
and  lake  after  you.  You  did  not  name  them  for  your- 
selves. You  did  not  so  much  as  know  there  was  a 
continent.  You  had  no  hunger  for  discovery.  You  did 
not  note  that  the  mountains  were  lofty  or  the  deserts  wide. 
And  the  prairies  you  roamed  over  you  coined  no  word  for; 
and  the  sea  you  were  afraid  of  and  never  touched  with 
arrow  or  with  tomahawk,  it  being  fierce  as  you  and  more 
ruthless,  this    wears    no    footprint   of  yours,   nor  shall   for- 

24 


ever.  Bronze  statue,  you  have  lost  your  chance  beyond 
recall.  Ruskin  never  knew  a  prairie.  Once  he  speaks  of 
it  slightingly,  in  a  preface,  as  I  recall;  but  Ruskin  never 
saw  a  prairie.  He  railed  at  what  he  knew  not.  Such  a 
reveler  as  he  in  gray  cathedral  wall  and  tower  and  in 
volume  of  water  in  swift  motion,  in  bulk  of  mountain-range 
standing  grim  across  the  sky,  in  towering  passion  of  the 
murderous  sea— such  a  reveler,  I  am  confidently  persuaded, 
would  have  felt  the  mastery  of  the  prairie  had  he  ever 
tramped  from  sky  to  sky  across  its  quivering  chrysophrase. 
In  the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  "Modern  Painters" 
he  writes  of  the  Campagna  of  Rome:  "Perhaps  there  is  no 
more  impressive  scene  on  the  earth  than  the  solitary  extent 
of  the  Campagna  of  Rome  under  evening  light.  Let  the 
reader  imagine  himself  for  a  moment  withdrawn  from  the 
sounds  and  motion  of  the  living  world,  and  sent  forth  alone 
into  this  wild  and  wasted  plain.  The  earth  yields  and 
crumbles  beneath  his  foot,  tread  he  never  so  lightly;  for  its 
substance  is  white,  hollow,  and  carious,  like  the  dusty  wreck 
of  the  bones  of  men.  The  long,  knotted  grass  waves  and 
tosses  feebly  in  the  evening  wind,  and  the  shadows  of 
its  motion  shake  feverishly  along  the  banks  of  ruin  that 
lift  themselves  to  the  sunlight.  Hillocks 
of  moldering  earth,  as  if  the  dead 
beneath  were  struggling  in  th< 
sleep;  scattered  blocks  of 
black  stone,  four-square,  rem- 
nants of  mighty  edifices,  not 
one  left  upon  another,  lie  upon 
them  to  keep  them  down.  A 
dull  purple,  poisonous  haze 
stretches  level  along  the 
desert,  veiling  its  spectral 
wrecks  of  massy  ruin  on  whose 
rents  the  red  light  rests  like 
dying  fire  on  defiled   altars.      The 

25 


SWEET  GROWING   THINGS 


blue  ridge  of  the  Alban  mount  lifts  itself  against  a  solemn 
space  of  green,  clear,  quiet  sky.  Watch-towers  of  dark 
clouds  stand  steadfastly  along  the  promontories  of  the 
Apennines.  From  the  plain  to  the  mountains,  the  shat- 
tered aqueducts,  pier  beyond  pier,  melt  into  the  darkness, 
like  countless  and  shadowy  troops  of  funeral  mourners 
passing  from  a  nation's  grave."  I  can  not  read  a  passage 
like  this,  one  of  the  noblest  descriptive  passages  in  lit- 
erature, without  the  assurance  that,  had  this  seer  beheld 
our  prairie,  his  imagination  had  capitulated  on  the  instant. 
I  am  not  unaware  that  in  this  description  are  such  things 
as  put  Ruskin  in  the  yeast  of  ecstasy;    namely,  the  preva- 


L'NDER    THE   STARS 


lence  of  history — the  presence,  so  to  say,  of  man  absent, 
the  stricken  might  of  men,  the  footprints  of  departed 
ingenuities  and  majesties.  Man  brooded  over  that  scene. 
But,  for  all  that,  he  could  have  seen  and  would  have  seen 
had  his  eyes  met  our  vision  face  to  face.  Not  to  love 
what  we  do  not  know  is  so  easv.  But  for  all,  whether 
Ruskin  loved  the  prairie,  is  of  small  consequence  to  us. 
We  love  it.  For  his  sake  we  wish  he  might  have  loved  it. 
These  prairies  are  ours.  Europe  has  mountains  tipped 
with  snow  and  rivers  crushed  from  the  glacier's  cruel  steeps 
and  Arno  valleys  slipping  toward  the  sea  and  roll  of  hill, 

26 


lors 


green,  turbulent,  and  plumed  with  elms;  but  Europe  has  no 
prairies.  They  are  our  own.  America  wears  them  thrown 
across  her  bosom  like  a  mantel  woven  by  our  shuttles,  and 
those  shuttles  lost.  America's  unique  province  is'  her 
prairie. 

And   while   this   phase   is   fresh  in  our  thought,  let  us 
recollect    how    slightingly    American    auth 
have   behaved  toward  the  prairie.     This 
strange,   and   as  humiliating  as  strange, 
If  any  one  will  take  time  to  read 
what   poet    and    prose-writer  have 
said  on  the  land  of  their  nativity 
he  will  think  they  had   either  never 
known  or  else    had    quite    forgotten 
the  prairie.      Of   course,    Poe   had   no 
word  for  it.      He  was  poet  of  woman  and  lost  cities  of  the 
sea,    arabesques    strangely    and    gorgeously    wrought    but 
natureless.      He  always  wandered  on  the  shore  of  dreams. 
Lowell  nor  Longfellow  nor  Lanier  nor  Sill  nor  Bliss  Carman 
nor  Emily  Dickinson  nor  Riley  nor  Cavaness  nor  Maurice 
Thompson    nor    Whittier    nor    Boker    nor    Stedman    nor 
Holmes    nor    Joaquin    Miller  nor    Whitman    nor    Eugene 
Ware   nor   Moulton  nor  Woodberry  nor   Imogen   Guiney 
nor  Van  Dyke  have  written  of  the  prairie,  not  once.     Ware 
wrote  of  a  storm  on  the  prairie;    but  it  was  of  the  storm 
and    not    of    the    prairie.      The    storm    might    have    been 
anywhere.     Once    when    Whittier    mentioned    the    prairie 
grass  he  mismentioned  it.    If  these  poets  had  a  word  to  say, 
it  was  in  privacy.    They  spoke  of  this  chiefest  beauty  of  our 
continent    as    chancing    to    think    of    it    while    they    were 
discoursing  of  something  besides.     What  could  have  ailed 
them?     For  one   thing,  they  were  mainly  seaboard  poets. 
They    knew    the    hills,    the    streams,    the    mountains,    the 
sands    and    marshes    of    the    sea;     but    prairies    were    not 
among   their   fellowships.      They  staid   too  near   at   home. 
They  did  not  journey  to  the  West  far  enough,  or  else  they 

27 


WILD 
SWEET 


A    ROADSIDE 
POEM 


did  not  stay  long  enough  to  get  the  prairie 

wonder  in  their  blood.      Riley  is  Hoosier, 

and  has  steeped  us  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 

beautiful    land    he    knows;    but  Joaquin 

jjSf        Miller  knew  the  glorious  prairies,  and  why 

^f|gs^eLid   he   not    know   the   prairie    passion?      I 

^vonder  at  him.      Indeed,  I  wonder  at  them 

all  who   have   omitted   this   lyric  from   their 

repertoire.      If  Lowell,  he  of  the 

"  O  if  you  have  ever  a  singing  leaf 
I  pray  you  give  it  me," — 

if  he  had  caught  the  lilt  of  the  singing 
prairie  and  the  meadow  lark, — if!  and  he 
did  not.  Once,  just  once,  once  only,  Long- 
fellow wandered  into  the  forest  primeval, 
and  once  he  camped  with  Hiawatha, 

"  Heard  the  whispering  of  the  pine-tree, 
Heard  the  lapping  of  the  water  ;" 

but  did  not  go  westward  ho,  until  the  prairies  widened, 
till  they  grew  wan  against  the  uttermost  sky.  Bryant  saw 
the  prairie  !  and  talked  about  it.  We  must  love  him  for 
that.  But  if  a  body  may  be  bold  enough  to  say  his  mind, 
Bryant's  "The  Prairies"  fails  all  but  wholly  of  getting  the 
prairie  atmosphere.  Read  the  poem  and  see.  This  failure 
grows  out  of  the  Bryant  peculiarity  which  was  that  he  was 
not  primarily  a  nature  poet  but  a  moralist.  The  point  that 
tips  his  arrow  is,  without  exception,  a  moralism.  So  of 
"The  Waterfowl.1'  So  of  "The  Fringed  Gentian. "  So  of 
"Green  River/'  So  of  "Thanatopsis."  Now,  however 
valuable  moral  accentuations  may  be,  they  are  not  always 
conducive  to  a  glow  as  of  sunrise  on  the  wheat.  Some 
morals  may  be  left  unspoken  to  the  end  that  they  may  be 
better  spoken.  Some  lessons  may  be  safely  intrusted  to  in- 
ference. Bryant  never  did,  or,  if  he  did,  I  do  not  now 
recall  the  occasion.  Nothing  less  needs  a  moral  than  a 
prairie.     We  need   the   prairie.      We   want   its   atmosphere, 

28 


fresh  with  its  vagabondage  of  the  winds.  Moralizing  will 
burn  the  prairies  up  like  prairie  fires.  So  although 
Stoddard  sa.d,  "It  was  worth  going  to  the  ends  of  the 
world  to  be  able  to  write  'The  Prairies,'"  and  although  the 
word  is  true  enough,  this  writer  adventures  the  opinion 
that  the  poem  of  the  prairies  is  yet  unwritten.  Would 
that  some  poet  with  the  wonder  of  the  prairie  in  his  blood 
would  come  and  pipe  as  the  winds  do  on  summer  days 
across  the  undulant  grasses  wild  with  journeyings,  whence 
we  know  not,  whither  we  know  not,  but  winds  filled  with 
the  mystery  of  space  and  voyaging,  and  wonderful  as  sea 
winds  and  as  individual. 

Nor  have  prose-writers  caught  the  prairie  to  their 
heart.  Irving  is  the  best,  or  shall  I  say  Cooper?  Thoreau 
was  a  wild  man  of  the  woods,  not  of  the  prairies.  I  think 
he  never  saw  them.  The  Maine  woods  and  the  woods  that 
girt  Walden  Pond  about,  the  bowlders  bulging  out  into 
the  open,  the  torn  sands  on  Cape  Cod,— these  were  his 
acquaintances  grown  into  fast  friendships:  but  prairies— 
where  could  this  seaside  provincial  get  a  glimpse  of  them? 
Cooper  had  a  felicitous  sense  of  the  outdoors,  possibly 
the  most  felicitous  of  all  our  writers,  and  has  named  the 
concluding  volume  of  Leather  Stocking  Tales,  "The 
Prairies/'  So  much  we  will  thank  him  for,  although  the 
book  is  on  the  prairies  and  not  of  them.  In  "Astoria,1' 
Irving  has  drawn   the  picture  of   that   rugged,  unfretting, 


WILD    INDIGO 
29 


difficulty-surviving,  wild,  great  man,  the  frontiersman,  in 
such  capable  fashion  that  the  frontier  would  know  itself 
in  looking  at  the  picture.  It  is  a  thing  to  make  weakness 
ashamed;  but  in  no  accurate  estimate  is  the  prairie  in  this 
sketch.  His  "Tour  of  the  Prairies"  is  his  accepted  effort 
to  breath  the  prairie  breath.  But  reading  this  tour  we  dis- 
cover there  is  too  little  prairie.  The  tour  keeps  too  close 
to  woods  and  streams.  Too  little  grass  is  waving  to  the 
wind.  Buffaloes  are  feeding,  and  the  hunter's  breath  grows 
hot  in  racing  this  prodigious  beast  to  the  grave ;  but 
prairies  inimitably  wide,  inimitably  wonderful,  an  Addi- 
sonian Irving  scarcely  drank  into  Ihs  blood.  But  he  rode 
toward  and  on  the  edge  of  this  most  American  thing,  and 
felt  its  loneliness.  So  near  did  he  approach  its  heart. 
But  that  he  should  have  cared  to  tour  them,  should  have 
felt  his  leisure  not  invaded  by  this 
prairie  voyaging,  is  all  to 
his  praise.  He  smelled 
the  prairie  wind  under  the 
stars,  and  felt  it  doff 
past  him  like  a  wistful 
ing.  Therefore  we 
praise  and  love 
Washington  Ir- 
ving, and  laud  him 
as  chief  realizerof  the 
prairies  amongst  Amer- 
ican litterateurs.  But 
have  any  of  these  prose- 
in  a  prairie  ravine  writers  or  poets  had  heart-to- 

heart  talks  with  the  prairies?  I  profess  to  believe  they  have 
not.  I  would  not  underrate  them,  surely  not.  I  would  not 
expect  too  much;  but  I  would  expect  enough.  If  only  they 
had  staid  on  the  prairie  long  enough!  This  is  their  omis- 
sion. You  must  not  be  in  the  prairie;  but  the  prairie  must 
be  in  you.      That  alone  will   do  as  qualification  for  biog- 

30 


•    -«^;^  ;^>-?.."'lS2s&.i- ... 


**§*£&?« 

^^^ 


"fgggp^^ 


rapher  of  the  prairies.  As  Tennyson  first  had  Ulysses  and 
his  sea,  drunk  like  quaffing  wine,  and  then  began  his  trump- 
eting until  you  saw  gray  Ulysses  and  his  mariners  and  saw 
the  dim  lights  on  receding  rocks  and  heard  the  deep  moan 
round  with  many  voices  and  felt  the  mystery  of  this  man 
and  sea,  so  he  who  tells  the  prairie  mystery  must  wear  the 
prairie  in  his  heart.  May  such  a  one  hasten  his  coming  ! 
I  own  a  square  mile  of  prairie.  Or  possibly  this  may 
be  stronger  language  than  the  facts  justify.  I  leave  the 
reader  to  judge.  I  have  given  my  autograph  for  a  square 
mile  of  prairie.  This  method  of  purchase  appeals  to  my 
imagination.  I  dwell  fondly  upon  it.  The  customary  way 
of  buying  ground  is  to  pay  cash  for  it.  This  seems  to  me 
crude  and  plebeian.  Anybody  can  buy  for  cash.  There  is 
nothing  creditable  to  character  in  that  class  of  transaction. 
Anybody  with  a  dollar  in  hand  can  buy  a  dollar's  worth  of 
commodities.  But  when  for  a  solemn  mile  of  prairie, 
a  four-square  block  of  God's  out-of-doors,  with  the  height 
of  the  sky  above  it  and  the  depth  of  the  world  beneath  it, 
and  the  radiancy  of  dawns  and  sunsets  shed  over  it,  and 
the  dim  dawn  of  dusks  enfolding  it  like  a  blessed  com- 
passion,— a  mile  east,  a  mile  west,  a  mile  south,  a  mile 
north, — and  all  the  time  to  be  tramping  on  your  own  grass 
and  breathing  air  brewed  on  your  own  ground  and  lifting 
head  into  your  own  sky  and  gazing  at  your  own  firmament, 
bless  me  this  is  plutocracy!  And  then  to  take  one's  own 
hand  in  congratulation,  remembering  that  all  this  is 
held  in  fee  simple  without  the  cost  of  a  postage 
stamp,  simply  by  the  execution  of  an  autograph,  ^^& 
— why,  this  method  of  purchase  is  as  unique  as  ""^  \  \ 
the  prairie  itself.     When  I  light  upon  a  wight  who  -  ^sL=, 

boasts  that  he  has  paid  cash  for  his  ranch,  I  pity 
him;   that  is  how  I  feel.      This  is  so  commonplace, 
you  know.      But  to  have  exchanged  a  dashing  move- 
ment of  a  body's  right  hand  for  a  section  of  land,  there  is 
something  to  that.     This  is  no  gross  transaction.     This  is 

33 


PRAIRIE   PI.OVKR 


BLAZING   STAR 


ifl 

commerce  put  on  a  high  plane.  I  am  told  by- 
persons  considering  themselves  sagacious  in 
business  that  this  giving  an  autograph  for 
t-  land  is  a  temporary  expedient — that  sooner  or 
later  (they  suggest  sooner)  I  will  be  required 
to  redeem  my  handwriting.  For  myself,  I 
think  little  of  this  kind  of  talk.  It  smacks  of 
commercialism;  and  I  oppose  commercialism. 
I  have  seen  no  sign  of  being  called  upon  to 
pay  cash  to  get  my  autograph  back.  And, 
besides,  why  do  I  want  my  autograph  back? 
No,  I  am  not  grasping  and  will  never  ask 
for  this  precious  handwriting.  Is  not  an  au- 
thor's autograph  valuable?  Even  so.  But  the  person 
holding  mine  may  keep  it;  and  I  will  keep  his  land.  He 
will  have  a  good  and  great  man's  signature;  and  the  good 
and  great  man  will  have  his  land.  No,  I  will  not  col- 
lect the  autograph ;  and  I  can  not  believe  that  he  will 
collect  the  cash  off  of  me.  How  can  he?  That  has  been 
tried  heretofore  but  with  no  distinct  success.  The  sages 
have  recited  how,  after  much  experiment  by  experts,  it  has 
been  definitely  conceded  that  blood  can  not  be  extracted 
from  turnips  :  and  this  ends  this  childish  talk  of  collecting 
money  from  me.  In  a  purely  metaphorical  sense  I  am  a 
turnip  ;  and  no  extractor  thus  far  invented  can  secure  my 
blood.  By  no  means.  This  talk  comes,  as  I  think,  from 
the  uninitiated.  Governments  are  run  on  a  credit  basis; 
and  to  all  intents  and  purposes  I  am  a  government,  but  not 
home  rule.  Besides,  this  autograph  has  been  given  to 
my  wife's  relations.  Aye,  be  it  said  with  modesty,  but  this 
was  a  stroke  of  genius.  I  have  given  this  autograph  to  her 
folks.  Can  it  be  thought  that  they  would  disturb  the 
felicity  of  a  christian  family,  said  christian  family  being 
related  to  them  by  marriage  ?  I  think  that  such  a  sugges- 
tion is  ridiculous.  When  an  autop~aph  is  issued  to  said 
relations  by  me,  it  is  with  the    (tacit)   understanding  that 

34 


this  ends  the  transaction,  at  least  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
I  will  not  tamper  with  the  autograph  further,  having 
executed  it ;  and  I  drop  this  wise  word  in  passing,  let  the 
autograph  not  tamper  with  me.  After  having  secured  a 
block  of  prairie  on  this  unique  plan,  I  can  commend  the 
plan.  It  has  novelty  and  is  refreshing.  Everything  about 
the  place  with  this  original  method  of  purchase  breathes  of 
originality.  The  wind  is  not  more  free  than  this  ranch  and 
I.  I  incline  to  the  belief  that  John  Law,  of  commercial 
memory,  and  I  are  relations.  Our  financial  methods 
breathe  a  spirit  of  freedom  from  commercial  trammels  and 
precedent  which  is  certainly  refreshing.  No  mortgage  is 
on  this  ranch,  nor  does  any  cash  weigh  it  down.  There  is 
a  gentleman's  autograph  on  it ;  and  this  enhances  mate- 
rially the  value  of  this  mile  of  prairie. 

But  to  stand  about  the  center  of  this  section  of  prairie 
and  to  look  and  breathe!     I  think  that  if  I  did  this  often  I 
would   sprout  wings.     I  know  I  could  crow;    and  I  would 
not  put  it  past  me  to  cackle.      But  it  is  exhilarant  to  own 
your  own  prairie  grass  and  prairie  air:  and  to  tramp  on  one 
and    in  the  other— this  is  kingly.      On   glorious  nights  of 
gloomy  dusk— without  a  silvery  moon,  but  vigiled  by  the 
stars— to  watch  the  Pleiades  blink,  and  to  feel 
the  wind   stream  from  far  and  hidden  spaces 
past  me  as  it  hails  from  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  world,  blown  over  infinite  spaces  of  name- 
less seas  and  from  the  mountain  land  of  those  dim 
stars  and  to  feel  the  wondering  eyes  of  those  stars, 
homes  of  these  winds,  searching  my  face  on  this 
tranced  night, — this   is   delight  keen  as  wine,  rap-    the  prairie's 
turous  like  love.     O,  this  square  mile  of  prairie  is  an  in-  WINGS 
toxicant  to  the  soul! 

The  prairie-hawk  is  the  brown  prairie  arrow.  The 
Indian  arrows  are  all  broken  or  lost  or  archaic,  mere 
curling  of  blue  smoke  to  tell  that  once  a  camp-fire  burnt 
here.     And  the  one  arrow  left  to  cleave  swift  way  over  the 

35 


prairie  and  through  the  sky  is  the  prairie-hawk.  And  his 
is  the  speed  vagrant,  but  terrific,  which  should  embody  the 
spirit  of  the  prairie  when  set  to  aggressive  winged  motion. 
His  flight  has  the  notionateness  of  prairie  winds,  and  the 
sudden  detour  as  of  a  change  of  mind,  a  leap  straight  on,  and 
then  a  notionate,  abrupt  change  in  direction,  as  if  he  had 
just  bought  wings  and  were  out  trying  what  sort  of  wings 
they  were.  I  have  seen  him  lurch  along  a  bleak  winter's 
russet  landscape  as  if  he  were  joking  with  it,  in  patches  of 
torn  flight,  utterly  erratic  and  utterly  engaging.  The 
freedom  of  the  fields,  the  prairie-fields,  is  on  him.  His 
flight  is,  in  ordinary,  low.  He  loves  his  prairies  and  would 
keep  close  against  their  breast.  They  mother  him.  In 
their  tussocks  of  green  his  nest  was  builded  and  in  them, 
in  turn,  he  builded  nest  for  his  babes.  The  prairie  and  the 
sky  shall  be  his  affiliations;  and  across  this  prairie  will  he, 
in  his  spasmodic  piloting,  voyage  as  across  a  sea. 

The    jack-rabbit — him    we    will    not    forget    seeing    the 
prairie  can  not   forget  him  nor  he  the  prairie.      Thither  he 
hastes;  this  he  loves;   and  to  see  him  lying  flat  in  the  brown 
grasses,  long  ears  forgetful  of  alert  erectness,  falling  along 
his  shoulders  as  if  the  wind  had  blown  them  so,  and  to  see 
him   standing   alert,   listening    ("aures    erccti"    as   says   our 
friend  Vergil),  ready  for  a  leap;  then  to  see  him  give  those 
wild  prairie  bounds,  as  if  spurred  forward,  not  by  fear,  but 
by  delight  of  the  long,  brown-like  sea  roads,  ready  for  fleet 
running;    and    his    racing   is   as    if   the    tumble-weed    made 
bounds,  lurching  to  the  jest  of  fleet  prairie  winds.      His 
going  is  spasmodic  like  the  blowing  of  prairie  winds. 
He    could    not    wear    a    pedometer.      He    is    prairie- 
begotten  and  is  as  lithe  as  a  lynx,  and  as  eager  as  a 
gust  of  March  wind  blowing  Spring  back  to  the 
world.      He    is    the    voiceless    swiftness    of   the 
prairie. 

The  prairie-wolf,  his  name  inclines  me  to  him. 
He,  too,   is  a  lover  of  the   prairie.      Wolf  he  is, 

THE   JACK-RABBIT  36 


sullen  and  whelpish.  His  swinging  gallop,  with  head  thrown 
back  waggishly  over  his  shoulder,  is  free  as  the  blowing  of 
winter  winds.  His  lair  is  the  prairie-paved  sky.  He  is  not 
moral.  He  cares  for  no  works  on  ethics.  He  looks  out  for 
No.  1,  in  which  lucrative  employment  both  on  and  off  the 
prairie,  many  are  engaged.  He  is  ministerially  inclined  in 
his  love  for  chicken,  though  I  truly  hope  the  ministers  are 
more  religious  in  their  method  of  acquiring  their  favorite 
edible.  But  the  wolf  is  no  moralist,  only  a  com- 
mittee of  ways  and  means  to  get  what  himself  wants,  which 
he  does  with  a  precision  most  discouraging  to  raisers  of 
chickens,  though  I  have  sometimes  found  myself  envying 
him  while  always  reprobating  his  methods.  He  is  true 
socialist,  and  devoutly  believes  in  making  himself  free  with 


I'RAIRIE   WOLVES. 


other  people's  belongings,  and,  like  a  true  socialist  too,  he 
has  not  been  known  to  share  his  plunder  with  any  other 
hungry  citizen  of  the  grassy  plains.  Many  is  the  night 
when  I  have  lain  awake  listening  to  the  eery  barking  of  the 
prairie-wolf.  At  the  first  it  is  weird.  I  may  have  only 
been  dreaming;  but  that  cry  appeals  to  me  as  the  expression 
of  the  weirdness  of  the  prairies,  their  strange  unknowable- 
ness.  This  wolf  bark  is  like  the  laughter  of  a  child  maniac, 
repetitional,  meaningless,  remorseless,  a  laughter  without 
joy  in  or  behind  it.  The  cry  is  a  wandering  voice  of  the 
prairie  levels;  disappearing  and  reappearing  among  the 
billows    of    a    rolling    prairie,    but    is    mirthless,    insistent, 

37 


uncanny.  Through  the  still  hours  of  nights,  quiet  as  the 
quiet  stars,  I  have  heard  this  invasion  of  unbridled  wild 
voices  mixing  unmusical  screeches  in  sullen,  joyless  chorus; 
they  were  the  prairie's  stretches  breaking  into  a  vagabond 
song,  a  meaningless  bacchanalian  revel.  The  voices  lifted, 
quieted,  and  strengthened,  as  the  wolf  packs  galloped  here 
and  there  at  play.  Voices  without  a  touch  of  playfulness, 
but  spontaneous  they  were;  and  the  prairies  were  calling 
under  the  skies  of  night  implacable,  inexplicable,  and 
weird.  The  wolf  is  careless  of  any  man;  and  his  lope, 
than  which  nothing  could  be  less  routine  or  more  care-free, 
less  stilted,  less  an  acquisition,  or  more  an  extemporaneous 
procedure, — is  the  heedlessness  of  the  prairies,  the  Heed- 
lessness of  wings,  the  playing  with  the  ground  as  if  it  were 
a  jest,  with  waggish  head  thrown  over  the  shoulder  as  to 
insult  your  laggard  speed.  The  wolf-leap  is  the  prairie  in 
cruel  motion,  not  creeping  like  feline  hypocrisy,  but  the 
vagabond  swing  of  a  wild,  elastic  delight  in  the  un fenced 
wonder  of  the  prairie.     The  wolf  is  a  prairie  child. 

And  the  prairie-chicken  is  child  of  the  sullen  winter 
grasses — dappled  brown  like  a  winter  prairie  field,  so  that 
when  this  wild  thing  lies  close  along  the  grass,  an  expert 
eye  might  forgive  itself  for  not  beholding  it,  until  the  wild 
thing  leaps  from  its  neighborly  wild  grasses  and  whirs 
away,  brown-blown  rags  against  a  gray  sky,  and  is  as  if  the 
brown  prairie  had  found  wings.  I  have  watched  this  singu- 
larity of  flight;  have  seen  the  companies  crowded  in  great 
multitudes  or  only  a  few  survivors  of  what  had  once  been 
great  flocks;  and  their  movement  is  like  the  free  moods  of 
far  prairie  winds'  lurches  of  flight  across  the  sky  in  a 
moment.  A  blur  of  wings — a  brown  battle  rush  and  wild- 
ness  that  knows  not  man  nor  his  peace  measures — and  they 
are  gone.  And  the  flavor  of  the  prairie-chicken's  flesh  is  as 
wild  as  its  prairie  flight.  Its  tang  is  caught  from  the  way- 
ward prairies,  a  wild  flavor  as  strange  as  bison  flesh,  the 
prairie  become  sapid.     When  winter  clouds  lower  and  the 

38 


brown  prairies  swirl  to  the  anger  of  the  sullen  prairie  winds, 
to  see  and  hear  the  flutter  and  wings  of  a  flock  of  prairie- 
chickens    is    to    have    brown    prairies    slip    the 
leash  of  the  earth  and  take  to  the  sky. 

And  the  buffalo,— who  shall  write  his  epi- 
taph or  rehearse  his  story?  He  is  beast  of  the 
prairie.  To  see  that  burly  figure,  that  huge 
bronzed  head  protruding  from  prairie  or  picture 
or  cast  in  bronze,  is  to  make  a  certificate  of 
the  prairie-  America.     The  buffalo  belongs  here.     He  is  the 

chicken  might  of  the  prairie;  and  like  the  prairie  he  is 
vanishing.  I  like  not  to  think  of  the  pathos  of  his  evanish- 
ment,  as  I  like  not  to  think  of  the  sadness  of  disappearing 
grasses  dying  out  for  lack  of  room,  and  from  invasion  of 
the  grasses  of  civilization;  but  to  read  in  Irving  or  Inman 
or  Greeley  or  Richardson,  or  any  other,  of  those  vast  herds 
of  trampling  bronzed  beasts,  with  heads  bent  low,  their 
prodding  horns  stooped  for  battle,  their  massed  legions, 
their  prodigious  onset,  their  trampling  as  if  the  thunder  had 
dropped  from  the  sky  and  had  begun  to  trample  on  the 
solid  world,  the  trembling  ground,  fairly  oscillant  to  the 
hammering  hoofs, — these  are  the  native  rough-riders  of  the 
prairie:  these  are  the  children  of  angered  prairies,  fleet  of 
foot,  furious  of  onward  going,  ruthless  as  death,  grim  as 
fate,  a  hot  breath  as  of  the  spirit  of  the  wild  prairie.  The 
prairie  a-foot  and  angered  and  battle  mooded — this  is  the 
buffalo.  For  the  buffalo  was  a  sullen,  laughterless,  frigid 
occupant  of  the  horizon,  as  stationed  there  by  the 
prairie  to  keep  intruders  out.  Than  a  buffalo, 
strong,  stocky,  immobile,  truculent  as  an  Indian 
warrior  on  the  warpath,  head  drooped  as  to  insti- 
tute a  charge  on  any  trespasser,  silhouetted  against 
the  sky-lines;  than  this  buffalo,  I  know  not  any- 
thing more  expressive  of  America.  And  he  is  a 
prairie  figure.  The  woods  he  courted  not;  but  the  long, 
green-gray,  brown,  or  green  grass-grown,  wind-swept  and 

39 


PRAIRIE-WARD 


wind-billowed  prairie-stretches  set  against  the  turquoise 
hedges  of  remote  skies,  these  he  loved, — there  he  flourished 
and  rejoiced.  The  buffalo  is  the  monstrous  prairie  become 
perambulent,  the  interior  of  a  continent  heaving  into  pro- 
digious and  portentous  battle  charge. 

The  prairie  expresses  itself  in  bronze.  In  no  other 
material  does  it  care  to  be  sculptured.  Indian,  wolf, 
prairie-dog,  prairie-chicken,  prairie-hawk,  are  all  lighter  or 
darker  bronze.  'T  is  a  sullen  metal,  but  heroic.  I  have  a 
face  of  Grant  done  on  a  medal  of  bronze  ;  and  the  silent, 
mysterious  soldier  seems  meant  for  such  vehicle  of  inter- 
pretation. The  prairie  folk  love  the  grim,  irradiant  pig- 
ments of  winter  grasses.  All  the  colors  of  its  bird,  beast, 
or  man  are  variegations   of  the  sullen   autumnal  or  winter 

grasses;    and  the  buffalo's  grim  sentineling 
,jwa       along  the  prairie's  sky  and   an   Indian's 

bronze  face  looking  stern  as  winter  seas,  are 

B?      made    so    by   the    glowing    on    them    of    a 

f\  Winter's  prairie,  which  no  delightful  Spring 

can    ever    kiss    into    emerald    and    flowers. 

And  buffalo  and  Indian  must  forever  hang 
lord  of  the  prairie  around    the    brown    horizons   of   the   disap- 

peared prairies,  which  used  to  wander  out  to  catch,  with 
brown,  burnt  hand,  the  trailing  garment  of  the  sunset  and 
the  storm. 

And  the  meadow-lark!  I  have  a  quarrel  with  whoever 
named  him.  He  is  ill-named;  and  that  is  unfair  dealing 
with  man  or  bird.  This  jaunty  bird  is  not  meadow-lark; 
he  is  prairie-lark.  A  meadow  is  civilized;  and  the  lark  is 
not  civilized.  Meadows  with  tame  grass  grow  too  eagerly, 
and  mature  too  precociously,  for  this  bird  of  the  dappled 
yellow  breast  to  nest  his  young  and  get  them  ready  for 
their  lifelong  voyage  across  the  fields.  Blue  grass,  clover, 
alfalfa,  timothy  are  all  unfitted  for  this  prairie-nester.  But 
prairie  grasses,  to  which  this  sweet  bird  is  native,  grow 
slowly  enough  to  allow  all  gentle  larks  to  be  graduated  from 

40 


LARK 


their  nests  or  ever  a  sickle  clatters  across  the  hay- 
field.  The  prairie-lark !  Now  that  is  delicious. 
Now  I  know  why  his  garments  are  mottled  like  the 
hawk's  and  the  prairie-chicken's;  now  I  know  why 
his  breast  is  yellow.  'T  is  watching  for  the  dawn 
so  long  as  to  have  caught  and  held  the  earliest 
yellow  rays  of  Summer  on  his  breast  when 
morning  spilled  its  light  through  twenty  million 
dewdrops  on  his  heart.  Now  I  know  why  his  voice  the  prairie 
is  haunting,  and  why  it  haunts  me  so.  It  is  the 
laughter  of  the  prairie.  It  is  the  prairie  gladness  lifted  to  a 
song.  Henry  Van  Dyke,  in  his  poem  "The  Veery,"  has 
this  home  touch  of  saying  how  he  heard,  in  foreign  lands, 
the  nightingale,  the  lavrock,  and  the  blackbird;  but  when 
he  heard  each  in  his  native  day  or  night,  himself  was  home- 
sick for  the  veery.  I  like  him  for  that  mood,  but,  by  his 
courtesy,  will  retain  my  preference  for  the  prairie-lark.  No 
song  pleases  me  like  his.  No  laughter,  save  a  woman's  or  a 
babe's,  is  quite  so  sweet.  The  whip-poor-will,  with  his  sad 
fluting,  is  a  minor  poet  and  musician  (dear  as  he  is  unto 
my  heart)  to  the  prairie-lark.  Him  I  listen  for  on  the 
brown  pre-springtime  prairies.  Spring  is  come  to  me  when 
I  hear  that  willowy  melody  flute  out  and  spill  along  the 
prairie  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  Spring.  The  lark's  flight 
is  like  the  blowing  of  a  sudden  gust  of  prairie  wind.  A 
whir  of  wings  like  a  quail's,  a  furious  fanning  as  if  it  were 
meant  to  encounter  the  fury  of  the  gale,  and  then  as  sudden 
a  cessation  from  this  violent  mood;  the  spread  of  wings 
horizontally,  the  shooting  of  a  yellow  breast  straight  as  an 
arrow  from  an  ardent  string,  then  a  staying  of  his  springy 
flight,  a  fluttering  of  wings,  a  veering  downward  eagerly  ; 
for  his  prairie,  my  prairie,  beckons  him, — and  he  alights 
jauntily  upon  a  weed-top,  lights  and 
swings;  and  the  prairie  laughter  bubbles 
from  his  heart;  and  the  green  prairie  has 
laughed  into  a  song.     I  have  never  seen  a 


THE   PRAIRIE-LARK   S    NliST 


lark  leap  high,  even  in  his  first  sudden  lunges  of  flight.  He 
feels  the  gravitation  of  the  prairie  tugging  at  his  wings  and 
heart.  He  loves  the  nearness  of  his  love;  and  his  home  is 
prairie,  and  not  sky.  Skylarks  glimpse  the  limitless  blue  ; 
and  the  prairie-lark  glories  in  the  limitless  level  prairies. 
His  heart  warms  toward  the  stretch  of  field  and  glows 
through  his  breast  until  you  see  the  warm  radiance.  When, 
as  his  habit  is,  the  lark  preens  himself  on  a  fence-post  with 
many  a  flick  of  form  and  feather  and  sudden  turning  of  the 
head  as  to  see  all  comers  to  hear  his  roundelay,— when  this 
minstrel  trills  a  tune,  a  fence-post  is  become  a  poet.  Last 
Spring,  in  days  of  April  advent,  I  spent  a  day  upon  the 
prairie  quite  alone  of  men.  The  sun  woke  into  warmth. 
The  whole  landscape  smiled  to  welcome  him.  The  grass 
crumpled  beneath  my  feet  as  I  ran  in  sheer  excess  of 
gladness  to  feel  the  prairie  spring  beneath  me.  And 
the  larks  were  courting  !  Say,  friend,  have  you  ever  gone 
amongst  the  courting  larks?  If  not,  you  have  missed 
much.  I  commend  you  to  it.  Courting  is  always  gladness 
such  as  helps  a  right  heart  to  the  gladness  of  the  world. 
They  who  love  not  courting  are  dull-hearted  and  dull- 
brained.  They  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  heart. 
But  courting  larks — what  a  gala-day  it  is  to  them,  as  to  us 
all!  A  courting  day!  Who  does  not  call  to  mind  the 
beauty  and  the  joy  of  that  happy  day  in  his  own  life  1  And 
this  day  on  the  brown  prairie  when  the  sun  was  telling  he 
would  presently  bring  the  Spring,  the  prairie-larks  were 
intent  on  love  ;  and  love  makes  poets,  as  all  the  world  has 
noticed.  And  every  Mr.  Lark  was  paying  court  to  some 
Miss  Lark  ;  and  the  sky  was  saturated  with  their  song. 
How  the  rivals  set  their  love  to  song  !  How  the  air 
thrilled  !  How  the  lovers  raced  wing-races  to  and  fro,  and 
sang,  and  sang,  and  sang  !  For  miles  the  sky  seemed 
seized  with  singing.  The  air  was  balmy  and  quiet;  and 
sounds  traveled  easily  and  far.  The  lark's  songs  for  miles 
seemed  to  make  their  chansons  for  my  hearing.      'T  was  a 

42 


day  of  revels.     I  have  not  forgotten  nor  can  forget  the  day; 
and   my  one   sadness   is   that   no   telling  can   re-create   the 
melodious  ecstasy  of  that  sunlit  prairie  where  the  larks  were 
chief  musicians.     This  Fall  I  had  made  a  long  drive  in  the 
night,  alone.     A  fierce  drench  of  rain  had  forced  my  horses 
under  shelter,  where  they  ate  from  a  haymow,  and  I  slept 
on  it.      My  fun  was  greater  than  theirs.      Rain   drenched 
down,  pounded  upon  the  barn-roof  as  with  angry  fists  then 
as  morning  drew  on  apace,  allayed  its  fierceness  then  ceased 
altogether;    and  in  the  pearl-gray  morning  the  nags  and  I 
resumed  our  way  across  the  prairie.     The  golden-rods  had 
quenched  their  fires:    the   asters  were  wide-eyed  and  glo- 
rious;   the  sunflowers  were  bankrupt  in  glow:    the  walnut- 
trees  had  dropped  almost  every  leaf  but  were  holding  fast 
every  spicy  nut:  the  elms  were  growing  rusty:  the  ivies  were 
spurts   of   red   flame;    and    in   the  dawning  light,  larks   in 
glorious  companies  were  racing  along  the  prairie  with  their 
quick  spurts  of  flight,  their  pausings  to  consider  whether 
they  would  go  or  stay ;  and  in  the  Fall,  at  morning  dawn,  I 
heard  such  discoursing  of  sweet  melody,  such  lark-bursts  of 
song,  as   I   had   not  heard   in  all   my  life    before. 
Larks  sing  in  springtime,  and  as  summer  sweats 
toward  grape-reaping,  cease  almost  or  alto- 
gether,  till,  when  Autumn   comes,  these 
singers   are    dumb.      I   wonder   at   them. 
Could  I  sing  so  blithely  and  so  hearten- 
ingly   as   they,  my   voice  should  never 
be  mute.     I  would  sing  while  daylight 
lasted    for    the    gladdening    of    the 
world.      But  they  do  as  they  please, 
and  please  not  to  sing  when  spring- 
time  dies.       But   here,    on   the   gray 
Autumn  morning,  they  sang  as  if  to 
break  the  heart  of  song.     I  had  driven 
fifty   miles   through    mud    and    midnight 
downpour  of  the  skies;  but  when  the  prairie- 

43  COMPASS   PLAN' 


larks  set  a-caroling  in  the  Fall,  my  heart  was  revisited  of 
Spring.  Prairie-lark,  with  your  coat  of  prairie  brown  and 
with  your  breast  yellow  as  the  beach-leaf  in  autumn  glory, 
I  would  your  voice  were  reproducible  by  any  trick  of  words 
or  music-notes.  Sweet  unspeakably  and  wild,  your  liquid 
melody  is  the  prairie's  interpretation  of  the  sky.  Prairie- 
lark,  you  are  my  bonnie  minstrel.  I  hear  you  now,  your 
voice  half  prairie  and  half  sky,  but  altogether  lovely  ;  I  hear 
you  now,  and  I  shall  hear  you  always  ! 

All  the  prairie  has  are  grass  and  flowers.  Trees  belong 
not  to  the  prairies.  Is  that  strange?  How  strange? 
Shrubs  belong  not  to  the  prairies,  save  here  and  there  a 
clump  of  sumacs  cluster  like  sheep  about  a  gentle  shepherd. 
How  often,  when  a  child,  a  child  of  the  prairie,  have  I  gone 
out  barefoot  and  alone  to  go  wild-strawberrying  upon  the 
prairies!  Nobody  told  me  I  was  going 
to  poetry  or  picking  poetry.  May- 
-,  ...  .  be    nobody    knew.      I    did    not 

then,   though    I    do   now.       But 

out  on  the  lifting  prairie  hills, 

free,  free,  free,  with  the  prairie 

wind    blowing   full   in    my    face 

and  pushing  me  rudely  as  to  get 

rid    of    my    intrusion,    though    I 

heeded  not,  thinking  it  was  jesting, 

as  indeed    it    was;    but    the    prairie 

wind  piped  with  its  prairie  orchestra 

and    the   sky   gave    the   prairies   room; 

and    the    clouds    fled    from     the    winds 

THE   SPRAY   OF   A    PRAIRIF  .  ,  ,        ,  .  , 

fountain  affrighted,  and  the  straying  breeze  came 

in  sudden  gusts  with  lulls  of  quiet;  and  the  grass  an- 
swered to  each  touching  of  the  wind  more  mobile  than 
a  sea-wave,  and  would  at  a  gust  bend  low  as  to  let  the 
wind,  so  evidently  in  a  hurry,  get  past.  And  the  curlew's 
call;  and  the  prairie-lark — that  is  his  name,  I  will  call  him 
that — lit,   like   a  winged   song,  in  the  green   pools  of  grass 


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THE  COTTONWOOD,  A  LOVER  OF  PRAIRIE  STREAMS 


and  gave  his  lyric  to  the  wind  as  a  love-token;    and  I,  the 
little  lad  with  bare  feet  and  freckled  hands   and  freckled 
face  and  holding  tight  to  the  tin  berry-pail  and  with  wild 
sense  of  wideness   and   of   freedom — albeit   as   a   child   all 
undefined;  for  children  define  nothing.     They  are  too  busy 
living.      Definitions  come   when  we    have   gotten   into   the 
back  bays  of  life.     I  called  to  the  winds  and  tried  to  answer 
the  prairie-lark,  and  could  not,  seeing  he  has  monopoly  of 
his  own  singing,  and  will  not  lend  his  lute  even  to  a  freckled 
boy  out  wild-strawberrying,— and  called   aloud,  not  know- 
ing why  I  called,  and  danced  with  the  wild  bee  and  waded 
knee-deep  (a  small  boy's  knee-deep)  in  prairie  grasses,  and 
felt  the  quiver  of  the  green   grass-blades   about  my  ankles 
and  naked  knees,  and  ran  or  puttered,  as  my  mood  turned, 
toward  a  group  of   sumacs,  if  I  could  see  one,  across  the 
quivering  plain,  and  was  rarely  disappointed  in  finding  wild 
strawberries  in  their  shadow.     And  the  sumac  thickets  on 
the  prairies  are  plowed  under;    and  the  straw-  ;/     ^-.^ 
berry  beds  are  lost;  and  the  prairie  is  a  field, 
of  com;   but  those  sumacs  cast  shadows 
in  my  heart;   and  the  wild  strawberries 
crimson  my  fingers  and  my  lips;  and^;* 
the  tang  of  those  winds  and  voices    j 
when  I  was  a  boy  is  on  me;  and  the 
lark  flirts  from  the  bunch  of  grasses 
where   his   little  folks   are  growing 
wings,  and  tosses  his  song  out  like 
a   rollicking   voice   of   the   prairie 
winds,— and  where  am  I?     Yes,  I 
know  now,— I  am  strawberrying 
out  in  the  prairies  with  bare  legs 
and    freckled   face,    and    girt     ^T 
round  by  miles  of  unfenced  -^j 
prairie   and    thousands   of 
miles  of  prairie  winds  and 
an  ecstasy  of  wideness. 

WHERE  WILD   STRAWBERRIES  GROW 


S" 


And  to  look  at  a  sky-full  of  prairie,  and  never  a  tree  or 
bush  on  all  of  it,  unless  a  palmy  clump  of  sumacs  camped 
there!  How  shall  we  explain  this?  We  can  not.  Some 
things  are  to  be  named  as  a  child  is.  Nobody  knows  why 
prairies  are  treeless  and  shrubless.  That  is  one  of  the 
prairie  mysteries.  When  planted  here,  trees  and  shrubs 
.■^W.  grow  and  prosper.  There  are  no  hostilities  of  soil  or 
breath;   but  they  did  not  grow  there  of  themselves. 


k  That  is  all.     Grass  owned  the  prairie.     How  often 
I  have  let  my  eyes  drift  like  a  cloud  across  long 


THE    CURLEW 
CAI.I 


miles  of  prairie,  and  not  a  sight  of  any  shrub 
from  sky  to  sky!  The  wild  grass  had  its  way. 
A  clump  of  wild  weeds,  clouds  of  wild  flowers,  but 
not  a  bush  in  sight;  for  so  is  the  prairie  sacred 
to  the  grass.  And  with  wide  stretching  prairies  the  eye 
grows  a  glutton.  It  knows  not  the  meaning  of  enough. 
I  have,  many  's  the  day,  swept  swiftly  across  prairies  fifty 
miles  an  hour,  watching  every  inch  of  the  journey,  loving 
every  inch  of  the  journey,  drinking  it  in  as  the  thirsty 
earth  does  dew  but  never  having  sufficiency,  not  to  say 
satiety.  I  become  exhilarant.  I  become  bacchanal.  The 
wideness,  the  delight,  the  freedom  fairly  inebriate  the  spirit. 
The  air  is  fresh  and  keen:  the  wind  scurries  like  Indian 
riders:  the  grasses  lean  down  to  kiss  the  earth,  who  is 
their  mother,  and  lift  again  to  catch  the  wind's  caress,  and 
answer  to  it  in  fitful  allegiancy;  then  race  madly  like  a 
thing  gone  mad;  then  in  a  moment,  without  visible  provo- 
cation, quiet,  till  the  calm  is  like  the  calm  of  the  high 
heavens  between  dim  stars.  Who  will  articulate,  for  those 
who  know  it  not  or  feel  it  not,  this  drench  of  delight,  this 
rapture  of  living? 

And  prairies  are  so  free.  In  Ca?sar's  Commentaries,  I 
recall  the  terse  Roman,  heartless,  Ca?saric  phrase,  "  Dux 
missus  ad  Roman,"  that  free,  wild  chief,  I  feel  his  freedom 
yet,  and  feel  him  gnawing  out  his  heart  in  Roman  slavery 
with  galling  gladiatorship,  with  an  Italian  army  of  slaves. 


And  the  prairie  has  like  sense  of  unquenchable  freedom. 
That  old  Helvetian  chief  died  free  in  spirit.  When  on  the 
prairie  you  become  son  of  the  landscape,  and  of  the 
prairie  landscape,  far  as  the  sky,  which  is  as  the  hawk  and 
as  the  unallegianced  winds.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  old 
prairie  rangers  sneered  at  towns  and  houses,  and  were 
choked  with  their  shut-in-ness.  To  have  slept  the  night 
under  the  skies  while  prairie  night-winds  slipped  past  on 
tiptoe  as  fearing  to  wake  you;  when  the  dews  were  lighting 
their  lamps  on  every  grass-blade  for  the  pageant  of  the 
morning  ;  when  the  prairie-wolf  flung  his  hoidenish  voice 
out  in  the  quiet  sky,  while  the  smells  of  prairie  and  sky 
were  so  delicious  as  to  render  Arabian  perfumes  garish 
things  ;  with  the  solemn  sky  exalted  over  you,  with  your 
prairie  bed  stretching  from  sky  to  sky  and  quite  big  enough 
to  stretch  on — well,  than  this  no  bed-room  is  nobler,  nor  is 
any  so  noble.  To  lie  and  drift  to  dreams  slowly,  like  a  re- 
ceding night-bird's  voice,  into  the  prairie  and  the  sky  of 
sleep; — and  the  prairie  has  had  its  way. 

The  prairie  is  the  sea  of  the  land.  The  ancestors  of 
this  hand  that  writes  were  sea-born  and  seafaring  folks  for 
nameless  generations;  and  this  son  of  theirs  never  saw  the 
sea  until  he  was  man  full  grown.  He  heard  that  somber 
minstrelsy  only  in  his  dreams  by  dark  and  day,  but  was 
reared  mid-prairie  and  has 
found  that,  as  a  fact  in  his 
spiritual  biography,  the 
prairie  took  with  him  the 
place  of  the  ancestral  sea. 
Prairie  and  sea  plant  no 
other  hedgerows  than  the 
sky.  Both  billow  out  into 
the  universe.  This  is  a 
great,  strange  presence, — 
this  intimation  of  the  infinite, 
this    feeling    that    your   journey 

49 

.  INDIAN    ARROWS 


leads  you  into  space,  that  if  your  feet  would  walk  to  the 
horizon  verge  they  would  thereafter  journey  out  into  the 
sky.  My  opinion  holds  that  this  feeling  is  more  visible  in 
prairies  than  seas,  the  reason  being,  probably,  that  sea  and 
sky  are  both  amethyst,  and  sea  melts  into  sky.  They  seem 
not  two  but  one.  All  appears  terraqua;  but  with  the  prairie, 
its  chrysophrase  is  strikingly,  beautifully,  and  I  will  add 
gloriously,  contrasted  with  the  sky  amethyst,  so  that  here 
are  two  lands  apparent  on  which  the  path  is  set.  The 
prairie  path  leads  to  the  sky  path  ;  the  paths  are  one  :  the 
continents  are  two ;  and  you  make  your  journey  from 
the  prairies  to  the  sky.  You  tramp  across  the  chryso- 
phrase into  the  amethyst.  O  journey  from  the  near  into 
the  far,  O  journey  from  the  swaying  green  into  the 
becalmed,  illimitable  blue,  O  journey  from  the  earth  with 
prairie-wind  a-blowing  in  the  face  into  the  far,  dim  spaces 
level  as  the  seashore,  where,  by  imperceptible  tilt  of  land- 
scape, I  am  led  at  last  up  to  the  purple  hilltops  of  eternity, 
where  blow  unhindered  and  forever  the  winds  of  God, — O 
journey,  journey  ! 

The  spacious  prairie  is  helper  to  a  spacious  life. 
Mountains  shut  us  in;  prairies  let  us  out.  Mountains  are 
barrier  builders;  prairies  are  barrier  destroyers.  Prairies 
make  level  roadways  for  the  soul  to  walk,  and  invite  out- 
ward, outward  to  the  sky,  which  invitation  is  passionate 
and  eloquent  beyond  describing.  Prairies  lead  into  the 
sky!  Had  you  learned  that,  my  heart?  They  aid  to  grow 
a  roomy  life.  Big  thoughts  are  nurtured  here,  with  little 
friction.  The  world  does  not  seem  great,  but  is  great. 
Goals  seem  suggestions  and  not  destinations.  Room, 
room!  On  the  prairies  you  may  stand  tiptoe  and  your  up- 
lifted finger-tips  have  no  fear  that  they  will  touch  the  sky, 
and  you  may  have  and  feel  no  lack  of  room.  "No  hin- 
drance" would  appear  a  legitimate  motto  for  the  stately 
prairies;  and  the  motto  is  sublime. 

Who  writes  about  the  grass  with  all  the  poetry  of  it? 
50 


No  one  has  expressed  that  poetry.  Ruskin  has  approxi- 
mated being  its  voice  more  adequately  than  anybody  else; 
but  I  think  the  prairies  will  die  without  grass  rinding  a 
voice.  Its  democracy  may  be  against  it.  John  J.  Ingalls 
celebrated  blue  grass;  but  blue  grass  is  civilized.  Prairie 
grass  is  barbarian.  One  has  been  taken  to  school:  the 
other  knows  not  the  meaning  of  a  schoolhouse  door.  The 
one  is  conventional:  the  other  is  free  as  birds.  The  one 
belongs  to  dooryards  and  pastures:  the  other  to  the  spaces 
where  winds  are  grown  and  storms  begin.  One  is  re- 
producible: the  other,  uprooted,  dies.  This  is  the  pathos 
of  the  prairie,  that,  once  turned  over  by  the  plow,  prairie 
grasses  die.  Some  other  vegetation  grows  on  the  sod 
where  prairie  was.  Grass  does  not.  Prairie  grass  plowed 
up  is  eliminated.  It  grows  but 
once.  I  have  a  plot  of  prairie 
kept  to  prairie  for  prairie's 
sake;  and  no  one  can  dig  a 
plowshare  into  that  sod.  Sa- 
cred it  shall  remain  to  prairie 
grass.  If  you  uproot  a  pine 
you  can  plant  another,  or  cut 
down  an  oak  you  can  plant  an 
acorn,  and  so  of  fruit  or  flower. 
Violets    have    seeds.       Prairie    grasses  brown-eyed  susans 

have  only  roots,  so  that,  when  once  the  prairie  grasses  die, 
no  cunning  art  known  to  the  husbandman  can  ever  coax 
their  radiant  greens  into  life  again.  Was  I  not  right?  Is 
not  this  the  pathos  of  the  prairies?  They  die  out  like  the 
buffalo.  Where  civilization  digs  deep  with  its  spade, 
forests  readily  rise  to  reassert  lost  ascendency.  It  is  heart- 
ening to  see  how  forests  are  growing  with  black  tangle  of 
shadows  and  boscage,  where  the  wood  quiet  lasts  the 
Summer  through,  choking  with  indolent  odors.  But 
prairies  have  no  art  of  resurrection.  They,  like  the  broken- 
hearted, have  no  to-morrow.     And  if  prairie  grasses  cling 

51 


with  a  tenacious  persistence  along  the  field  edges,  lay  this 
disposition  not  to  obstinancy  but  to  love  of  life.  'T  is  the 
wild  grasses'  last  chance.  Sunflowers  can  seed  themselves 
across  a  landscape,  but  prairie  grasses  can  only  creep  inches 
where  roots  in  the  dark  soil  reach  out.  A  voice  calling  for 
help,  "Let  not  the  prairie  grasses  die.  Keep  a  plot  for 
memory,  for  nature."  Green,  vivid  prairie  for  remem- 
brance! Remembrance  of  the  morning  of  the  world  ! 
And  to  me  alfalfa,  millet,  timothy,  white  clover,  red 
clover,  I  love  them,  and  faithfully,  but  all  appeal  in 
lesser  passion  than  the  prairie  grass.  They  belong  to 
to-day:  this,  to  yesterday.  They  are  the  here:  these,  the 
there.  They  can  not  live  without  civilization:  these  can 
not  well  live  with  it.  Day  was  when  the  land  was  theirs 
alone.  Besides,  prairie  grass  is  so  beautiful.  Blue  grass 
(and  I  do  not  offend  it)  is  demure;  but  prairie  grass  is 
vivid,  as  if  God  had  just  dyed  it.  Essential  surprise  is  on 
its  face,  the  wide  wonder  of  a  face  just  waking  in  the  dewy 
morn.  Prairie  grass  never  seems  to  know  anybody.  It 
forgets  faces,  or,  what  I  suppose  is  more  accurate,  does  not 
recognize  them.  The  prairies  belong  to  the  sky,  and  do 
not,  in  their  nomad  vocabulary,  know  the  meaning  of  a 
face.  They  creep  where  their  king  is;  they  journey  toward 
the  sky. 

I  can  no  more  get  enough  of  a  wide  prairie  than  I  can 
of  a  sunrise.  I  can  sit  for  months  of  days  watching  the 
level  stretches  and  never  feel  a  sense  of  enoughness,  not  to 
say  satiety.  I  know  no  limit.  Owning  the  landscape,  that 
is  the  prairie.  March,  inarch,  march,  what  is  on  the 
march?     Why,  silly  friend,  the  grass  is  on  the  march. 

Or  when  the  prairies  do  not  run  toward  the  sky,  but 
tumble  toward  it,  this  is  a  phase  of  beauty  prairies 
indulge  in.  If  prairie  grasses  do  not  billow  like  the  blue 
sea  does,  lift  continents  of  water  in  one  glorious  leap 
skyward  ;  if  prairies  are  not  mobile,  they  have  their  own 
methods    of    turbulence.      They    lift    themselves    in    long 

52 


swells  like  rollers  of  the  oceans,  long  undulance,  lifting, 
falling,  trough  and  crest,  and  fill  a  sky  full  of  their  billows,' 
these  billows  which  keep  their  fixidity  of  undulance.' 
Thus  is  the  prairie  grown  billowy.  The  long  waves  lift 
and  toss  green  spray  from  green  crests.  Can  the  eye  light 
on  a  scene  more  imposing  than  this,  billows  lifted  and 
stationary?  How  I  have  reveled  in  a  landscape  of  this 
sea-wave  made  constant  !  Billows  and  billows  far  as  the 
eye  can  see,  swell  on  swell,  a  leap  and  a  tossing,  a  refusal 
to  abate,  a  delight  in  upleap,  a  delight  so  thrilling  that  in 
its  skyward  approach  it  tarries  as  saying,  "  I  can  not  fall, 
having  risen  toward  thee,  O  sky  !  I  love  thy  dome,  O  sky, 
and  must  abide  a-near  thy  smile.  Bid  me  not  to  leave 
thee,  O  sky,  my  sky  !  "  In  this  toss  of  the  prairie  is  a 
sense  of  rapture  and  wonder  akin  to  praise,  which  can  find 
no  descriptive  term.  Lexicons  can  give  us  no  word  equal 
to  the  occasion  and  the  mood.  How  I  have  watched, 
standing  on  the  green  billows'  last  acclivity  until  I  have 
seemed  to  feel  the  undulations  as  of  a  watery  wave.  Thus 
is  the  freedom  of  the  billowy  sea  transported  to  the  solid 
earth.  I  would  not  say  this  waving  prairie  was  more 
impressive  than  the  level  prairie  walking  toward  the 
waiting  sky  but  would  say  that  it  is  a  type  of  impressive- 
ness,  a  radiant  expression  of  nature's  vitality  and  versa- 
tility, a  sea-wave  of  emerald  sown  to  multi-colored  flowers, 
treeless,  shrubless,  but  aflame  with  green  gladness  of  floral 
colors,  pinks,  blues,  yellows,  and  whites;  God's  sea  in 
flower;  and  the  waves  at  rest  lest  they  should  tilt  this 
radiancy  of  flowers  ! 

And  was  there  not  some  fine  poetic  insight  in  the  early 
day  naming  the  mover's  wagon  the  "prairie  schooner?" 
When  across  this  wide,  undulant  prairie,  the  white  wagon- 
top  went  climbing  wave  on  wave,  and  sinking  out  of  sight 
in  the  hollows  of  innumerable  ravines,  only  to  reappear 
again  afar  off  on  leaning  green  billow, — was  this  not  the 
visible  importing  of  the  ocean's  white  sail  into  the  land? — 


And  when,  across  long  doldrums  of  level  green,  the 
schooners  slowly  vanished  as  if  caught,  not  by  the  currents 
of  the  air  but  by  a  current  of  the  sea,— white  sail  on  green 
and  sleepy  wave,— here,  too,  was  the  poetry  of  voyaging. 
When  a  little  babe  and  held  against  a  mother's  gentle 
breast,  this  writer  voyaged  across  the  prairies  from  Fort 
Leavenworth  to  the  Rockies.  And  what  a  voyage  that 
must  have  been!  Though  he,  a  babe,  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  strange  witchery  of  his  journey,  to  sail  across  a 
prairie-level  sea,  with  a  mother's  arms  for  a  hammock,  and 
a  mother's  bosom  for  a  pillow,  and  a  mother's  singing  for 
a  sea  lullaby, — that  was  a  voyage  to  make  all  sea-goings  un- 
interesting as  a  twice-told  tale.  But  he,  poor  little  lad, 
knew  naught  of  this  divine  poetry,  but  across  the  long 
green  levels  steadily  sailed, — tossed  on  the  stranded  bil- 
lows, this  prairie  schooner  sailed.  Instead  of  tritons  to 
blow  the  sail,  there  were  oxen  to  pull  it.  But  this  was  a 
brave  voyage.  The  crew  were  my  father  and  my  mother; 
and  I,  the  little  tyke,  was  sole  passenger.  And  afterward, 
when  I  was  but  a  little  lad,  only  old  enough  to  remember  a 
very,  very  little,  I  sailed  back  across  these  identical  prairies; 
only  now,  I  sailed  motherless;  and  the  crew  was  my  father, 
I  still  being  sole  passenger.  No  arms  nor  breast  nor  lily 
wonder  of  a  mother's  face,  nor  star-shining  of  a  mother's 
eyes,  nor  the  whole  world  of  tenderness  of  a  mother's  hug- 
ging arms,  but  the  bearded  sea-going  man,  crew  of  the 
prairie  schooner,  and  the  little  passenger;  and  though  a 
little  chap,  the  lad,  now  grown,  can  recall  the  prairie  levels 
and  the  warlike  Indians  seen  at  distances,  fierce  to  his 
childish  imagination,  riding  like  wicked  winds  along  the 
prairie  ranges;  for  those  were  the  days  when  the  Indian 
was  not  a  man  of  peace,  but  when  schooners  were  wont  to 
sail  in  fleets  for  self-protection,  and  when  the  crew  slept  or 
sailed  with  trusty  loaded  rifle  in  the  hand.  And  now,  I  can 
see  those  barbaric  riders  sweep  along  the  levels  on  their 
fleet  Indian  ponies  and  can  feel  the  wild  thrill  in  the  night 

54 


%\ 


at  hearing  some  alarm.  And  the  voyaging— nothing  be- 
sides the  crew  and  passenger— and  sailing  on  steadily  with 
the  merest  dalliance  of  motion;  and  camping  at  night  and 
noon  and  we  cooked  our  supper  and  breakfast  with  a  fire 
of  buffalo  chips;  and  the  lad  would  fall  asleep  watching  his 
father  attending  the  beasts,  and  would  find  himself  sleep- 
ing in  the  night  under  the  schooner  cover,  and  would  look 
out  and  find  the  stars  shining  far  but  brilliant  in  the  prairie 
sky,  and  would  waken  his  father  to  ask  if  all  were  well,  and 
if  God  were  there,  and  where  was  mother,  mother?— and 
being  told  by  the  father,  whose  voice,  as  he  now  recalls 
choked  at  the  saying,  that  God  was  here,  and  mother  was 
out  past  and  beyond  the  stars;  and  she  was  with  God 
there,  as  God  was  with  us  here;  but  she  was  watching  her 
little  lad;— then  the  lonely  little  lad  would  sob  a  little,  and 
fall  asleep  on  his  father's  heart!  He  recollects!  And' now 
the  father  and  mother  are  both  with  God  there;  and  their 
lad  is  with  God  here.  But  the  voyaging  across  the  prairie 
in  the  white  prairie  schooner  was  the  invasion  of  his  soul 
by  the  prairie,  and  has  staid  with  him  through  years,  and 
will  stay  with  him  all  the  years  that  are  to  come.  He  is, 
by  all  pre-emption,  a  son  of  the  prairies. 

Irving  made  mention  of  the  loneliness  of  the  prairies. 
He  is  quite  right.  They  are  lonely,  with  a  loneliness  for 
which  tears  are  no  alleviation.  Whittier,  with  an  inaccuracy 
born   of  ignorance,    talks   of   the    prairie    moaning   like    a 


■J*.  -        f   f 


■ 


.  *fr4«Jf^£s2S.    &* 


•  \ 


r\  ' 


PRAIRIE   SCHOONER 

55 


broken  heart.  This  is  far  away  from  truth;  sea-waves 
moan:  prairies  never  moan.  By  no  license  of  interpreta- 
tion can  you  so  construe  them.  Prairie  grasses  swish.  In 
that  sound  heard  at  night  is  something  weird  as  a  dead 
man  seen  alone  by  moonlight.  I  have  lain  all  night  long, 
many  's  the  night,  listening  to  the  weird  voices  of  the  grass, 
— I  know  nothing  comparable  with  it.  No  fields  of  oats, 
wheat,  or  corn  can  be  mentioned  with  it.  Corn  rustles; 
grass  swishes;  winter  grass  heard  by  dark,  when  the  winds 
brew  tempests,  will  put  your  spirit  in  frame  for  believing 
"The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner"  and  the  poems  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Loneliness,  wide  as  a  sky,  will  grip 
your  spirit.  A  moan  will  lurch  from  your  lips.  You  will 
feel  the  tragedy  of  space.  The  being  shut  out  in  a  uni- 
verse alone,  forsaken,  solitary,  in  the  unpathed  spaces 
where  no  stars  light  their  lamps  nor  any  angels  ever  happen 
by  nor  any  guidance  is  afforded  and  where  a  compass 
would  be  a  terrestrial  bauble  because  its  needle  would  find 
no  pole  star, — such  loneliness  will  drench  you,  as  I  have 
been  drenched  with  the  falling  waves  of  ragged  seas.  The 
swish  of  the  grass,  the  long  reaching  of  the  darkness, 
spaces  laying  hold  on  you  like  an  iron  hand,  spaces  speak- 
ing to  you  in  a  husky  whisper,  fearful  as  battle,  frightful  as 
death!  The  lonely  prairies,  with  the  rush  of  the  tireless 
wind  and  the  swish  of  the  tawny  grasses  and  the  last  touch 
of  loneliness,  the  ukye-yi"  of  the  prairie-wolf  tossing  his 
wild  cry  for  the  winds  to  carry  where  they  will, — loneliness, 
thy  other  name,  thy  one  true  synonvm,  is  prairie. 

Or  to  watch  prairies  by  moonlight.  Not  to  have 
poetry  of  light  poured,  as  among  the  hills,  into  a  bowl,  but 
on  the  wide  prairies  to  distill  as  an  atmosphere  from 
marge  to  marge.  Not  so  manv  nights  ago  I  chanced  to 
stand  upon  a  prairie  when  the  moon  was  full  and  very 
silvery.  I  was  as  one  drenched  in  a  silver  haze,  a  halo  such 
as  angels  wear  about  their  brows  when  they  are  visitants  to 
man      A-near    the    prairies    were    rapturous    in    the    light 

56 


which  concealed  while  it  revealed  :  further  the  silver  shone 
above  the  nodding  grasses  and,  far  out  on  the  last  marge 
of  prairie  and  of  sky,  the  moonlight  enveloped  the  land- 
scape like  a  recollection  of  life.  Nothing  to  hinder  the 
moonlight.  No  shadow  cast.  Only  silvery  light  sown  to 
wide  spaces  where  night-winds  wakened  the  nodding 
grasses  with  petulant  hands,  petulant  yet  caressing.  No 
shadow,  only  light;  and  the  calling  of  the  wind  in  whispers 
to  the  nodding  grasses,  "Wake,  O  wake!  We  are  come: 
we,  moonlight  and  the  summer  wind:  wake!"  and  the 
prairies  lift  up  their  lips  for  the  kisses  of  the  moonlight 
and  the  wind,  and  then  fall  back  into  a  happy  sleep,  shone 
through  with  happy  dreams.  And  moonlight  and  the 
prairie  winds  fall  a-wooing  each  other  till  the  dawn. 


PRAIRIE    DOGS 


THE  NORTH  WIND 


^ 


THE    ROADWAY   OF  THE  STORM 

59 


The  NortK  find 

^\et  tky  rude  lips  to 

the  lips   ol    this  lute: 

|ry  tky  crude  strervgtk 

witk  dull  absence  01  lorm: 

jlow  tky  wild  summons 

and  Tore  sis  \iproot: 

Jjriivg  tke  bleak  Winter 

.     arvd  Lreatk  ol  tky  storm. 


-If? -IT 


S 


THE  NORTH  WIND 


I  SAW  A  BLUEBIRD 


THIS  THE   BLUEBIRD  SAFG  OF 

63 


I  SAW  A  BLUEBIRD 


I  was  drifting  along  on  a  Fast 
Mail  on  a  gray  morning  in  February. 
The  wagon-road  waded  along  knee- 
deep  in  mud,  like  a  tired  soldier.  Not 
a  patch  of  snow  as  big  as  a  catalpa- 
leaf  was  to  be  seen  anywhere;  for  in 
the  last  two  days  a  south  wind  had  j 
been  scrubbing  every  snowdrift  ; 
from  field,  prairie,  and  hill. 
Wheatfields  lie  brown  as  hazel- 
nuts in  long,  threadlike 
rows  of  apparent  death. 
Plowed  fields  are  ridged  in 
mud  you  could  wade  in  as 
in  a  stream.  Horses,  scat- 
tered over  the  pasture  fields, 
UP.HILL  stand    moodily,    as    sulking 

about — we  know  not  what. 
Though  it  is  morning,  the  sun  is  unsocial,  and  will  not  so 
much  as  peep  from  behind  his  shutters.  He  is  as  careless 
of  us  as  the  squalling  bluejay.  The  landscape  near  and  far 
is  patched  with  pools  of  dirty  water,  fresh  wrung  from  dirty 
scars  of  snow,  now  vanished.  The  visible  world  of  field, 
sky,  habitation,  stream,  drift  and  fall  of  smoke,  has  a  dis- 
appointed look  as  of  a  disappointed  emigrant.  No  hint  of 
animation  is  discoverable.  Everything  seems  tired,  pee- 
vish, and   unanticipative.     Even  the  water-pools  approach 

67 


unloveliness  as  nearly  as  water  can;  for  water  is  like  a 
woman,  almost  predestined  to  be  beautiful.  But  now  the 
pools  are  edged  with  mud:  the  sky  is  rather  muddy  itself: 
the  tuck  seems  to  be  taken  out  of  things.     The  girl  at  the 

station  has  n't 
"get-up1'  enough 
to  say,  uDad  bob 
it!'1 — and  this  is 
the  last  straw, 
i/  positively  the  last 

'  •/   (  straw.       When     a 

girl    won't    ejacu- 
-   late,  things  are 
wholly     out     o  f 
joint. 

*\   (A  The    Fast    Mail 

leaps  on  as  if  to 
escape  the  monot- 
ony, saying  as 
nearly  as  I  can  get 
the  isthmus  at  it,  "Let  us  get 

out  of  here." 
The  no-account  look  of  everything  gives  a  man  with  ruddy 
temperament  a  jolting  setback.  The  earth  out  at  the 
elbows,  knees,  breast,  and  back,  sprawling  like  a  sick  man 
in  a  garret, — that  is  all  there  is  of  this  landscape  anyhow. 
I  am  about  to  lose  interest  in  this  particular  out-of- 
doors,  a  thing  damaging  to  its  character;  for  when  I  lose 
interest  in  this  unhoused  earth  it  has  few  friends  left  in 
these  parts.  I  am  a  friend  Nature  sets  store  by ;  not  that  I 
am  discriminating  or  consequential  (that  would  be  ab- 
surd), but  that  I  am  an  infatuee.  Everything  out-of-doors 
knows  that.  They  snub  me  as  knowing  I  like  them;  for 
Nature,  like  woman,  snubs  her  beaus.  But  I  am  out  of 
sorts  with  this  landscape,  and  about  to  turn  my  eyes  from 
this  shifting  scene  of   muddy  road,  muddy  earth,   muddy 

68 


sky,  muddy  cattle,  muddy  water-patches,  muddy  prairies, 
muddy  creeks,  muddy  everything, — turn  eyes  from  them  to 
my  book,  when,  just  as  I  am  digging  for  my  book  with  one 
hand  and  one  eye,  and  giving  good-bye  to  the  muddy  out- 
side with  the  other  eye,  I  catch  sight  of  a  bird  wabbling 
along  the  dingy  sky,  coming  along  lamely,  as  if  its  wings 
were  a  trifle  rusty  at  the  joints,  and  on  a  sudden  the  bird 
makes  a  dab  at  a  fence-post,  and  a  barbed-wire  fence-post 
at  that,  gives  a  flirt  with  his  wings,  and  settles;  and  I  begin 
to  whistle  a  lyric  of  the  Spring:   for  it  is  a  bluebird. 

And  the  train  swept  on  in  its  usual  hurry,  giving  me  no 
time  to  say  a  social  "howd'ye"  to  this  precious  immigrant, 
nor  to  ask,  why  did  he  come  so  soon,  nor  whether  he  had 
flitted  alone  or  in  sweet  company.  A  puff  of  smoke  along 
my  car-window,  a  lurch  of  the  train  trying  to  fit  its  body  to 
a  trumped-up  curve,  a  lunge  to  the  forward,  and  the 
blessed  bluebird  is  lost  to  my  sight,  but  not  to  my  heart; 
no,  no!  I  whistle  my  impromptu  Spring  tune,  careless  of 
who  hears  me.  Spring  is  somewhere  around,  with  her 
apron  full  of  johnny-jump-ups,  and  swelling  crimson  of  the 
red-buds,  and  the  flash  of  green  of  the  earliest  grasses 
growing  in  the  shelter  of  wooded  ravines.  A  bluebird  has 
come;  and  the  sky-blue,  of  which  he  is  a  tatter,  will  come 
hurrying,  and  before  the  world  is  many  days  older  I  think 
to  see  the  zigzag  of  lightning  along  some  melancholy  cloud, 
and  hear  the  salute  of  the  first  cannon  of  thunder.  And 
the  landscape  smiles  at  me  with  a  kind  of  chuckling 
laughter,  like  an  old  joker ;  and  the  haystacks  look  at  me 
jocosely;   and  the  clouds  lift  their  surly  eyebrows;  and  the 


V 


t±   -% 


■cornshocks,  ankle-deep  in  the  mud  of  muddy  cornfields, 
seem  to  be  finding  their  rasping  voices,  and  saying,  "We 
must  get  a  hustle  on  us,  and  get  out  of  here,  or  the  old 
man  will  plow  us  under;  boys,  get  a  move  on!"  And  the 
mud-road  sulks  along,  but  is  getting  dry  at  intervals;  and 
the  black  fields  are  itching  to  be  scratched  by  the  harrow 
and  the  plow;  and  the  colts  and  calves  have  a  jaunty  look, 
like  going  to  a  fair.  What  ails  this  country  anyhow  ? 
Things  are  looking  up.  I  am  looking  up  myself.  I  sing 
my  lyric  of  the  Spring.  What  ails  us  all?  Why,  the  blue- 
bird ails  us.  His  blue  wings  have  fanned  my  sky  into 
cloudless  and  abundant  blue.  What  if  I  had  heard  the 
bluebird  sing?  Bless  me,  it  would  have  been  midsummer 
in  my  heart  !  My  voice,  my  wistful  heart,  resist  no  more. 
Sing,  sing  !  The  solitary  bluebird  owns  the  world  ;  and  his 
coming  makes  our  sadness  glad. 

Thy  trivial  wings  so  trivial  were, 

They  barely  served  to  make  a  blur 

Of  Spring's  sky  blue,  a  moment's  space. 

But  trivial  though  thy  blue  wings  were, 
Which  barely  served  to  make  a  blur, 
They  banished  Winter  by  their  grace. 


WAITING 

70 


A  WALK  IN  LATE 
NOVEMBER 


THE   DIM   NOVEMBER   DISTANCE 
7* 


WHEN    WINTER 
COMES 


A  WALK 
IN  LATE  NOVEMBER 

Never  think  you  must  go  far  from 
home    to    fall    in    with    the    poetry 
of  nature.      The  stay-at-home  life 
may  be  rich  in  sight  and  acquisi- 
tion.    Wordsworth,  in  his  solemn 
"Ode  to  Immortality,"  says, 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy;" 

a   saying   true,    but   not   a  whole 

truth.       Heaven    lies     about    us 

always,    provided    we     care    for 

heaven  and  watch  for  it.     Heaven 

is  a  perpetuity.     We  walk  on  the 

ground,    but    in    the    sky.     To 

watch  for  the  heavenly  is  not  to  be 

disappointed,   seeing   heaven 

never     disappoints     anybody. 

Close   at   home   I   will   always 

venture  to  find  quiet  loveliness 

nobody    can    quite     describe, 

i    yet  fitted  to  fill  the  heart  with 

quiet  laughter. 

The  time  is  late  November. 
Trees  are  leafless  and  for- 
saken. The  landscape  has,  in 
the  main,  forgotten  it  ever  was  green  with  springtime,  or 
a-bloom  with  Summer.  But  beauty  has  not  departed. 
Beauty  never  goes  on  a  vacation,  but,  as  some  sweet  house- 


keeping  mother,  always  stays  at  home.  The  wind  has  a 
touch  of  winter  in  it.  The  sky  is  packed  with  clouds  run- 
ning to  and  fro,  like  soldiers  seeking  position  for  battle. 
This  day,  some  would  call  gloomy.  I  call  the  day  a  bene- 
diction. Under  the  sky  there  is  always  room  and  healthy 
occupation  for  our  thoughts.  In  just  a  minute,  by  the 
calendar,  winter  will  be  here;  but  snows  are  not  choking 
the  fields  and  lying  in  drifts  along  the  hills.  No  premoni- 
tion of  such  days  is  on  us,  save  gray  glooms  of  cloud,  which 
might,  in  an  effortless  way,  sift  snows  down  if  they  would. 
Late  Autumn  nearing  Winter,  but  Autumn  yet.  Swallows 
and  thrushes  and  meadow-larks  are  gone  as  soon  as  leaves 
begin 

"To  rustle  to  the  rabbit's  tread." 

They  are  professional  lovers  of  sunny  weather,  and  will  not 
campaign  against  the  stretch  of  wintry  days.     Shivering  is 
not  in  their  program.     Sturdy  or  valiant,  you  can  not  think 
them.     They  have  not  the  making  ot  mar- 
tyrs or  heroes,  but  are  makers  of  summer 
melody  and  springtime  glee.     We  will  not 
fault  their  non-heroic  make-up,  but  rather 
rejoice   in    the    things   they  were    and   did. 
Not  everybody  is  meant  for  a  Trojan,  any- 
way.    Some  are  Sybarites.      But  the  spar- 
rows are  another  folk.      They  stay.     They 
stay  too  much,  in  common  estimation.     I 
know  that.     One  jeopardizes  his  standing 
in  society  when   he   says  a  good  word   for 
I    that  bit  of  pugilism,  the  English  sparrow; 
j    and  vet,  coming  to  think  of  it,  how  could 
?    he  be  other  than  a  little  hostile?     Does  he 
not  come  of  fighting  stock?     Were  not 
his    forbears    marauders?     Clearly, 
this  is  heredity.     Clumps  of  bushes, 
where  the  thickets  of  the  roadside 
journeying  are  tangled  with  many  a  weed   and 

76 


bramble, — there  the  sparrows  bicker.     They  are  indiscrim- 
inate warriors;    domestic  or  foreign  battle  is  of  no  conse- 
quence with  them.     Their  home  etiquette,  I  grant  you,  is 
not  scriptural,  but  is  interesting  when  one  happens  not  to 
belong    to    the    family.     Of    course    that 
makes  a  difference.    It  is  better  to  look  on 
a   family  fuss  than  to   participate  in  one. 
A  sparrow,  storm-blown  on  tempestuous 
Fall  or  Winter  winds,  is  like  helter-skelter 
brown  leaves  whipped  with  the  wind.      But 
they  enjoy  the  frolic.     They  are  garrulous 
folk.     They    company    in    social    fashion,  jMy 

like  a  large  family  which  will  quarrel  but  ^|Jfv 

loves    notwithstanding.      And    as    I    walk  ¥Hr 

along  this  road  the  thickets  are  populous 
with  these   irascible  brothers  and   sisters. 
They  give  no  heed  to  me.     I  am 
no    sparrow;     and    that    ends    the 
business  with  these  clannish  folks. 
Birds  care   for  nobody  but  them- 
selves.    I    can    not    think    this    is 
good  religion.      In  fact,  I  am  con- 
fident   it    is    poor  religion;    but 
birds  give  scant  attention  to  re- 
ligious matters.      These  birds 
are  busy  with  their  own  affairs. 
Man    is    abso- 
lutely outside 
their  consider- 
ations.     M  a  n 

walks:  sparrows  fly:  why  should  such  aristocrats  as  birds 
take  any  note  of  such  plebeians  as  men?  I  have  it  not  in 
my  heart  to  be  angry  with  them,  They  have  appearances 
on  their  side.  Men  do  cut  a  sorry  figure  compared  with 
birds.  Really  they  humble  me  to  my  proper  proportions. 
You  can  not  well  stay  an  egotist  if  you  stay  with  the  birds. 

77 


THE  SPARROWS  HAVE 

FOUND  A  HOUSE' 


They  will,  with  their  nonchalant  snubbing,  bring  the  haugh- 
tiest among  us  to  his  senses.  But  one  thing  restores  my 
complacency,  at  least  in  part.  If  these  sparrows  do  not 
notice  me,  neither  do  they  notice  anything  save  themselves. 
The  somber  skies  they  care  nothing  for;  nor  do  they  give 
heed  to  skies  flushed  with  dawn,  save  to  use  it  as  a  borrowed 
watch  to  get  up  by;  nor  do  they  deign  to  give  a  thought  to 
skies  glorious  with  noon.  No,  they  are  busy  holding  fete- 
day  every  day.  And  I  stand  and  watch  them  as  a  beggar 
may  stand  and  watch  a  king's  pageant  flaming  by.  Then, 
with  a  puff  of  wind,  they  drift  along  the  frowzy  under- 
growth, scolding  the  winds  as  men  and  women  do. 

In  late  November,  nature  seems  a  bankrupt.  In  Sum- 
mer every  plant  uses  its  chances,  growing  after  a  goodly 
fashion;  never  lost  in  the  tangle  of  varied,  growing  things, 
but  striving  out  boldly  toward  the  sun,  as  if  it  shined  for 
this  plant  alone.  In  a  growing  plant  is  a  sturdy  independ- 
ence, be  it  weed,  or  flower,  or  grass-blade,  or  the  leap  of 
growing  corn,  or  the  shag  of  woods.      In    Summer   those 


MINNKHAHA, 

LAUGHING  WATER' 


78 


HERE  AUTUMN  WEEPS 


wild  energies  of  life  are  at  work,  and  make  for  independ- 
ency of  growth,  attitude,  action.  In  November  this  prolix- 
ity of  energy  is  less  than  a  memory.  Life  is  bankrupt. 
Weeds  have  been  whipped  with  the  rains  and  winds,  so  that 
now  they  are  broken  and  fallen  into  adversity,  like  decayed 
gentility.  The  thickets  are  ruins,  and,  like  all  ruins,  have 
pathos  and  to  spare.  I  hear  the  drops  of  waters  as  from  the 
eaves  of  some  neighboring  roof;  and  the  roof  is  a  ledge 
of  rocks  from  whose  seams  waters  trickle  without  inter- 
mission as  if  the  rain  upon  this  roof  never  wearied  of 
falling.  Shut  your  eyes  and  hear  the  drip  of  rain  from 
the  eaves  of  your  boyhood  home.     And  memories  crowd 


THE   BRIDGE 


thick  as  swallows  on  an  ancient  barn-roof.  A  solitary 
mullein  grows  on  the  face  of  the  rocky  wall  like  a  huge 
rosette.  Wild  catnip  sprawls  along  the  ledges,  with  here 
and  there  a  green  of  summer,  fresh  and  fair,  upon  the 
leaves. 

Down  a  long  bank  wild  blackberries  grow,  with  not  a 
leaf  lost  so  far  as  I  could  discern.  I  have  always  noted 
how  those  plants  not  yet  grown  to  the  dignity  of  vines,  but 
looking  like  shrubs,  hold  with  singular  tenaciousness  to 
their  foliage.  I  like  their  grit.  Some  of  their  leaves  are  a 
bright  green  yet,  though  more  are  tinted  a  trifle,  and  many 
seem  to  have  had  the  dregs  of  wine  spilled  on  them. 
These   plants   are   mountaineers   in  a  small  way,  liking  to 

6  81 


climb  short  or  long  acclivities; 
and  they  people  this  bank  with 
reminiscent  loveliness. 

Below  the  hill  a  river  washes 
moodily  and  with  drowsy  speed. 
A  wooden  bridge  lumbers  across 
the  stream;  and  a  wooden  bridge 
has  personality,  a  thing  no  steel 
bridge  possesses.  Iron  is,  in  the 
multitude  of  cases  at  least,  in- 
trinsically utilitarian,  and  so  both- 
ers me,  although  I  rejoice  in  its 
amazing  usefulness.  Iron  is  the 
prose  of  architecture  and  the  arts, 
stone  being  the  verse.  But  the 
wooden  bridge  has  a  self- 
hood I  enjoy.  This  bridge 
is  old  and  covered.  Lovers 
might  stand  on  sunny  days  in 
its  shadow,  and  listen  to  the 
leafless  whispers  of  the  waters  or  the 

beating  of  their  own  hearts, 
or  to  the  swish  of  the  waters  as  they  glide  in  leisurely  haste 
under  the  shadow  of  the  bridge,  and  ripple  against  the 
piers.  How  sweet  the  voices  of  rivers  are!  Moving  water 
is  never  voiceless;  and  my  own  observation  of  stream  and 
lake  and  pool  and  sea  is,  that  water  is  seldom  quiet.  It 
sings  and  shouts  and  thunders  in  seas,  like  the  rush  of 
clanging  dragoons;  or  tinkles  like  sheep-bells  heard  in  a 
woodlawn  pasture-land;  or  sinks  into  furtive  whispers;  but, 
save  on  occasions  rare  as  a  woodthrush  note,  rivers  are  not 
quiet,  and  only  on  trivial  pools,  when  the  wind  is  still,  will 
the  speech  of  the  waters  be  quiet.  It  is  worth  while  to  lie 
with  ear  against  the  rim  of  quiet  streams  to  hear  the  waters; 
for  really  they  are  telling  their  secrets,  if  only  in  whispering 
whispers,  like  words  of  peculiar  tenderness  meant  for  those 

82 


we  love  the  most.     And  this  river  is  saying  in  mellow  tones 

its  reiterant  story;  and  where  a  ripple  wades  across  stream 

the  waters  lift  voices   so  that   school-boys   passing  would 

hear  the  words  spoken;    and  when  caught  by  a  log  fallen 

from  the  bank,  scolding  it  as  an  intruder;  but  the  drift  of 

the  waters  toward  a  far-off,  unseen  sea   makes   a   daintier 

music,  like  hushed  laughter  from  those  we  do  not  see.     And 

under  this  cloudy  sky  the  voices  grow  tender;  and  the  river 

is  taking  me  into  its  confidence;  and  what  the  story  was  I 

will  not,    as   becomes   a   friend,   disclose;    but  should  you 

come  hither,  the  stream  will  deal  kindly  with  you  as  with  me. 

And  here  is  some  belated  golden-rod,  with  leaves  green 

as   in  Summer;    and   the  rare  gold  flushing  warm   on   the 

November  air  is  grateful  remembrance  of  a  long  Summer  of 

golden   sunlight,   spendthrift  of   beauty.      I   go   down.     I 

hasten    down    the    bank    toward    this    belated    splendor, 

eagerly  as  one  would  go  to  meet  a  friend.     How  good  to 

meet  golden-rod  in  the  out-of-the-way  place  of  this  time  of 

year,  when  I  had  never  thought  but  that  all  its  laughing 

light  was  past  and  dead  as  the  light  of 

cloud!     I  gather  the 

late  gold,  some  of  the 

buds    being    scarcely 

in  bloom,  and  cherish 

hope    that    in    the 

warmth  of  my  study 

these  belated   buds 

may  fling  aside  their 

green    cloaks,    and 

show    the    flash    of 

their    autumn    glory, 

and   that,   lifting    my 

eyes  jrt  the  dim  lighfe 

of  my  study,  I   shall  - 

be   greeted   with    the 

glow  of   September 


a  faded  evening 


BROKEN 


days,  and  hear  the  drone  of  bees  as  I  did  when  the  blue 
haze  began  to  hug  the  distant  scene. 

Along  the  road  are  logs  ready  for  the  mill.  A  fallen 
tree  is  to  me  like  a  fallen  soldier.  I  have  a  fight  with  my- 
self, at  such  times,  to  keep  my  imagination  free  from  the 
old  mythology  which  would  make  a  tree  a  thing  not  less 
than  human.  But  apart  from  that  ancient  seizure  of  my 
imagination,  there  is  a  modernity  of  interpretation  which 
makes  the  dead  soldier  and  the  felled  tree  similar,  and  in- 
duces a  regret  wide  and  deep.  Neither  shall  rise  again. 
Ruthlessness  has  slaughtered  them.  That  they  died  in  a 
worthy  cause  may  be  quite  true.  But  this 
scarcely  lessens  the  pathos  of  the  sol- 
dier or  the  tree.  They  are  gone. 
Their  abundant  vitality  and 
strength  and  courage  and  un- 
complaint  compel  our  admira- 
tion. No  battle  shall  clang 
against  them  evermore.  The 
trumpets  of  wind  or  carnage 
shall  be  dumb.  They  will  hear 
such  tumults  never  hereafter. 
-JlifcflE  For  all  their  wild  and  tempest- 

■*!  uous    might,    they   are   slain. 

Death  hath  hacked  them  down 
with  his  malignant  sword.  Be- 
cause they  fought  with  such 
glad  zeal,  the  death  of  them 
makes  a  bright  day  sad.  The 
SINGING  trees  lie  hopeless  like  a  soldier 

dead.  The  trunks  which  used 
to  tower  so  bravely  in  the  forest  are  prone  now,  and  voice- 
less. But  this  fallen  bole  exudes  odors.  Do  not  odors  of 
flowers  and  trees  £ftd  new-mown  hay  trick  you  into  poetry? 
These  aromas  must  remain  among  the  perpetual  mysteries 
nature  shelters.     In  what  laboratory  are  these  arboreal  per- 


fumes  distilled  so  that  fallen  trees,  mak- 
ing no  lament,  give  as  their  last  kindly 
gift  of  gracious  largess  an  atmosphere 
saturated  with  odors? 

The   blue   grass  is   a   deep    green; 
for  the  Autumn  has    been   rainy  and 
the  soil  is  soaked  with  moisture;  and 
as  I  look  across  the  river  on  the  fields 
of  russet  corn  and  up  slopes  where  the 
forests  gather,  this  green  is  the  only 
hint   of    Summer    sufficient   to    attract 
the  eyes  at  distances.     Near  at  hand 
the  blackberries  made  mention  of,  and 
mullein  and  spikes  of  golden-rod  and 
knots  of  violet  leaves,  make  their  con- 
tribution of  Summer   but 
are  not  sufficient  to  fleck 
the    landscape    with 
their  greens.    Grass 
is    so    modest, 
never  obtrusive, 
yet  always  back- 

ground    of  THE  SHAD0WS  lengthen 

beauty  for  beauty  not  its  own.  When  God  gave  a  blue  sky 
and  a  green  undulation  of  vale  and  hill,  of  grass  and  leaf, 
He  was  our  Lover  not  less  than  when  He  broke  the  sky 
with  mass  of  mountain  or  separated  the  continents  with  the 
"great  unvintaged  ocean."  And  the  violets  cluster  bloom- 
less,  to  be  sure,  but  reminiscent  blues  strangely  sweet  with 
departed  grace.     One  violet  gives  me  all  the  Spring. 

A  hid  music  calls  me.  I  have  passed  beyond  the  river 
voices,  having  climbed  the  bank,  and  hunting  (it  is  good  to 
hunt  for  things  out  on  hill  or  fields  or  in  the  shadowed 
tangles  of  a  wood),  I  find  a  secret  spring,  of  whose  presence 
I  had  not  been  apprised  but  for  its  music.  Music  is  be- 
trayer of  rivulet  or  forest  bird  of  happy  heart.     A  spring 

87 


>eside  me.      I  urge  my  way  through  a 
thicket,  and  down  a  bank,  and  up  a  bank  half- 
"way,  and  find  a  spring  dripping  its  crystal  into 
a  basin  whose  waters  wrinkle  to  the  droppings 
from    above.     Say    no    more    lest    their    music 
make  me    garrulous.     As   I    go   lazily  looking 
and  listening,  I   find   a  baffling  ledge  of  rock 
seamed  with  such  intense  green  as  one  sees  in 
cinctures   of   the   Spring.     What  could   this   be 
but  moss?     And  I  go  near  to  caress  it.     There 
it  clouds  the  rocks,  a  perfect  radiancy  of  em- 
erald; for  the  brown  rock  and  the  russet  land- 
„..  scape  make  room  for  its  contrast.     I  must  go 
\  /)       Jiear  and  watch  it,  as   I  would  watch  my  sleep- 

ing babe,  for  simple  love.  Moss  is  exquisite, 
nothing  less.  And  I  noticed,  as  I  had  often 
noticed  before,  how  the  moss  makes  company 
for  itself.  Its  neighbors  are  lilliputian  also, 
'uch  wee  plants  growing  alongside,  whether  out  of  court- 
esy or  from  necessity, — who  knows?  But  these  are  plants 
in  miniature,  so  daintily  but  so  perfectly  done,  they  mind 
me  of  the  exquisite  workmanship  of  certain  ancient  intag- 
lios I  am  a  happy  possessor  of.  It  is  so  good  to  sprawl 
and  look  at  these  baby  plants,  semblances  of  the  larger 
world  of  growing  things.  By  being  smaller  they  lose 
nothing,  but  rather  gain.  The  plants  I  see  look  like 
violet  leaves  done  after  some  fairy  pattern;  and  their  dainty 
beauty  makes  them  fit  neighbors  for  the  mosses.  A  little 
remove  from  where  these  bright  green  mosses  veined  the 
rocks  was  a  brawny  ledge  thrusting  itself  like  an  intruder. 
Here  I  noted  a  sharp  and  lovely  contrast.  Moss  lay  hug- 
ging the  rock  with  its  thrilling  green,  but   sending  up  a 

88 


very  forest  of  reddish  trunks,  so  that  I  seemed  looking  on 
a  pine  forest  on  the  ledge  of  high  mountains.  They  stood 
bravely  as  if  great  enough  to  be 

"  Masts  for  some  huge  ammiral." 

These  were  forests  such  as  we  see  climbing  icy  peaks  upon 
the  frosty  window-panes.  Looking  again,  they  seemed 
"palisades  of  pine-trees"  seen  in  remote  perspective.  If 
there  be  fairie-land,  I  dare  avouch  the  forests  affording 
shadow  from  the  heat  and  giving  music,  for  the  glades  are 
moss-forests  primeval,  such  as  I  looked  on  this  latest 
autumn  day  on  the  bluffs  which  sentineled  White  River  as 
it  strides  toward  the  Wabash,  hidden  from  sight  by  wood- 
lands and  hills. 

The  lack  of  other  than  plant-life  certifies  the  nearing  of 
Winter.  Aside  from  the  sparrows  told  of,  I  saw  no  animal 
life,  save  some  sheep  in  a  distant  meadow  and  one  rabbit, 
who  thought  me  a  hunter  and  ran,  "puir  thing,"  not  know- 
ing I  did  not  know  which  end  of  the  gun  should  be  pointed 
his  way  if  murder  had  been  in  my  heart,  and  that  I  was  no 
fratricidal  soul,  having  only  mild  intent,  not  being  on  a  tour 
of  hurting  but  one  of  recreative  sight-seeing,  looking  about 
to  see  what  God  was  doing  in  His  out-doors  when  Fall  was 
in  its  dull  November. 


[LDED   BESIDE   THE   STREAM 


WHEN  THE  FROGS  SING 


LISTEN  J 


AFTERWHILES 


WHEN  THE  FROGS  SING 

When  the  frogs  sing — did 
I  hear  you  giggle?  I  feel  sure 
I  heard  you  giggle.  Though 
you  look  sober,  you  are  hilar- 
ious. Your  risibilities  are  up- 
set by  this  rustic  talking  of 
frogs  singing.  How  absurd! 
Giggle,  giggle,  giggle,  frogs 
croak,  giggle,  giggilior,  giggil- 
issimus!  ha,  ha,  ha!  sing 
frogs!  Croak  is  the  word. 
But  not  to  be  a  stickler 
about  words, — for  a  country- 
man's vocabulary  is  meager. 
He  is  alone  so  much,  and 
trails  the  plow,  shocks  the 
wheat,  and  has  all  such  solitary  employments.  He  has  need 
of  farm  terms;  such  as  eggs,  butter,  grass,  hay,  corn, 
grapes,  cabbages,  apples,  horse,  lariat,  haying,  rain,  dew, 
mud,  sowing,  reaping,  rhubarb,  onions  (the  odor  is  on  us), 
sleep,  work,  love,  God's-acre,  sunrise,  moonlight,  stars, 
God, — simple  words  like  these  stock  us  countrymen  up  till 
our  brain  is  crowded.  You  will  not  think  me  a  stickler  for 
words,  but  I  must  be  firm  at  this  point.  Sing  is  the  word 
when  frogs  tune  up.  With  deference  to  you,  friend,  they 
do  not  croak.  Theirs  are  the  merriest  voices  of  the  spring. 
Frogs  come  from — we  know  not  where:  and  all  of  a  sudden 
the  night  is  filled  with  their   singing.      Other  singers  get 

95 


above  us  when  they  sing.  A  choir  does:  a  bird  does. 
Even  a  quail  likes  to  be  on  a  fence  when  he  makes  his  un- 
equivocal remark.  And  the  meadow-lark  wags  on  a  last 
year's  weed  or  calls  blithely  from  a  fence-post;  but  the 
frogs  are  down  where  muddy  waters  are  in  temperature 
only  a  trifle  above  freezing,  and  these  little  wretches,  with- 
out a  sign  of  clothing  on  them,  and  so  cold-looking,  if  we 
could  see  them  in  the  dark  or  day,  as  to  make  us  habituees 
of  clothing  shiver:  and  yet  they  sing  in  simple  love  of  life, 
in  joy  of  being  back  in  a  muddy  pool  under  dim  starlight. 
Honor  bright,  I  know  not  any  voices  in  nature  which  so  in- 
spire me  with  a  sense  of  the  joy  of  life,  unless  it  be  the 
cricket.  Let  me  not  forget  his  fiddling;  but  he  has  a  warm 
hearth,  and  warmth  thaws  out  most  of  us.  So  I  will  not 
retract  my  saying.  The  frogs'  music  is  most  jocund  of  all 
the  din  nature  takes  delight  in.  Why  should  the  frog 
sing?  He  has  no  wardrobe.  He  has  no  sky.  He  has  not 
even  clear  water.  Spring  is  not,  at  his  coming,  equipped 
to  toss  out  a  sprig  of  flower  on  hardy  stem.  And  spring 
is  not  sure  she  has  come  to  stay.  The  one  sign  that  spring 
is  here  is,  that  the  frogs  are  singing.  It  is  spring  with 
them.  They  have  bonnie  hearts.  They  sing  about  so 
little.  My  heart,  couldst  thou  not  learn  a  lesson  from 
these  singing  neighbors  of  thine?  Thou  singest  not  whose 
blessings  no  arithmetic  can  compute.  They  sing  when  the 
sole  blessing  of  their  nights  and  days  is  that  the  good  God 
lets  them  live.  O  laddies,  sing  in  your  sullen  pools  by 
night  or  day,  and  all  the  night,  while  spring  is  young. 
When  a  torrent  has  drenched  out  of  impetuous  skies;  when 


THE  FROG'S  TRYSTING  PLACE 
96 


wind  has  whipped  itself 
into  a  whirlwind;  when 
a  scowl  still  wrinkles  the 
brow  of  the  stormy  sky; 
when  muddy  roads  are 
ankle-deep  with  new- 
made  mud ;  when  every 
road-side  is 
turned  into 


. 


-* 


it 


m 


A  WORK-DAY  RIVER 


a  mill-race; 
when  every 

passenger  out  late,  toil- 
ing in  the  mud,  mutters 
or  talks  out   loud,   and 
says    things    not    worth 
recording;    when    the 
rain  still  pelts  your  face  spite- 
fully, as  angered  that  you  are 
not  indoors;  when  the  whole 
world    is    moody, — I    have 
heard    the   frogs   sing  in   the 
swollen  roadside  rivers:  sing 

like  merry  children.  Glee  was  on  them.  They  were  like  a 
choir  of  wood-birds  waking  early  with  the  shining  east; 
only  not  a  star  winked,  not  a  cloud  shoved  itself  away  from 
shore,  like  a  boat  putting  out  to  sea.  The  water  was 
muddy  enough  to  have  made  a  mud-catfish  wipe  his  specks 
to  see  which  way  to  swim;  the  wind  blew  cold  as  coming 
from  a  remote  glacier;  but,  did  I  tell  you,  the  frogs  sang  as 
if  to  split  their  throats?  In  the  midst  of  the  night  and  the 
midst  of  the  mud,  I  stopped  and  regaled  myself  on  this 
hilarious  melody.  The  frogs  were  singing  the  doxology, 
though  to  no  tune  I  was  familiar  with,  which  is  no  disrespect 
to  them  as  minstrels;  for  I  am  no  muscian.  Tunes  are  not 
my  specialty.  Not  but  that  I  can  pitch  and  carry!  I  am 
expert  in  that.  But  that  is  no  sign  I  know  a  tune.  I  have 
7 


97 


not  infrequently  observed  how  some  of  us  musicians  who 
are  least  equal  to  singing  are  most  eager  for  singing.  This 
is  a  microbe,  this  insisting  on  performing  what  we  can  not 
perform.     The  singer  smiles,  but  the  audience  groans.     So 

I  pitch  and  carry, 
and  enjoy  hearing  my 
own  uplift  of  tune, 
but  am  disqualified 
from  hitting  a  tune. 
A  tune  I  consider  a 
trammel;  and  I  am 
against  trammels: 
and  who  are  they 
who  hand  out  the 
iron  manacles  of 
sharps  and  flats,  and 
insist  on  their  being 
worn?  No.  Away 
with  them,  say  I.  Let 
music  be  untram- 
meled.  But  this  is  a  digression.  My  musical  enthusiasm 
has  carried  me  away.  But  in  this  also  am  I  musical.  Musi- 
cians are  carried  away  with  their  warblings.  Brother  Will 
Shakespeare,  of  precious  memory,  made  remark  of 

"  Such  music  is  in  immortal  souls." 

His  reference  was  to  us  singers.  I  feel  it.  I  flush  to  ac- 
knowledge it.  I  can  back  and  bow  to  the  audience  in 
acknowledgment  of  this  personal  reference,  not  to  call  it 
personal  thrust.  "Music  has  power" — but  I  forbear. 
"You  ask  me,  wondering,  why  I  sing."  Many  have  won- 
dered at  that.  The  musically  ungifted  have  often  indulged 
in  this  preposterous  conception.  I  sing  because  I  must. 
Apollo  has  handed  me  his  lyre  (which  is  fantastical  spelling 
for  "liar"),  and  I  must  use  it.  I  feel  like  singing  a  solo 
now;  but  I  desist.     No,  friends;  do  not  encore  me.     It  is 

98 


THE   RIPPLES  ON  THE   KIVKR 


not  just  to  the  other  singers.  Not  that  my  repertoire  is  ex- 
hausted. Far  from  it.  No.  I  have  two  songs  left,  which 
I  have  not  sung  oftener  than  two  hundred  times.  These 
are  as  we  singers  reckon,  new,  brand  new.  But  I  will  not 
sing  now;  I  will  bow,  going  backward,  bow  and  smile;  re- 
turning, I  do  the  same;  bow,  move  gracefully  backward, 
smiling,  disappear  like  a  dissolving  view.  But  pardon  this 
personal  remark. 

The  frogs — I  was,  as  I  recall,  speaking  of  them:  was  I 
not?  Thank  you.  I  was.  I  am  definite  now.  I  was 
speaking  of  the  frogs  singing  the  doxology  to  a  new  tune. 
It  is  their  own  tune,  but  is  glorious.  Honestly,  glorious! 
So  little  to  rejoice  over,  and  such  a  wealth  of  rejoicing! 
They  were  so  eager  to  sing,  and  not  a  musician  among 
them;  but  they  wanted  to  sing,  "Rejoice,  rejoice!"  and  God 
wrote  the  music  for  them,  and  they  all  know  it;  little  and 
big,  and  all,  pitch  in;  and  the  sopranos,  tenors,  altos, 
basses,  start  in  where  they  are.  The  tune  and  hymn  they 
sing  is,  "Rejoice;  praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow."  And  this  frog's  music  may  seem  trivial  to  many, 
but  is  not  trivial  to  God.  The  song  among  the  lowly — 
how  He  loves  it!  This,  and  no  other,  is  to  me  the  wonder 
of  the  universe  that  God  has  gifted  each  thing  He  has: 
created  with  abundant  gladness.  To  us,  voices  may  be  un- 
musical; but  the  song  is  out  of  the  throat,  but  is  of  the 
heart.     A  woodpecker,  say  the  ornithologists,  has  no  note 


SLEEPING  WATERS 
101 


at  all.  His  vocal  organ  is  his  bill,  wherewith  he  hammers 
out  tunes  on  an  old  white  limb.  This  is  his  piano;  but  his 
hymn  is  a  happy  hymn.  He  is  in  love  with  life;  and  life  is 
in  love  with  him.  He  must  somehow  lift  a  tune,  and  so 
borrows  the  keyboard  of  a  white  branch,  long  dead  and 
past  music,  and  thus  laughs  out,  "Rejoice!"  Ah!  Ruben- 
stein,  this  is  your  brother  pianist.  Fraternize  with  him. 
"Rejoice!"  Blessed  tune  and  deathless  music!  This  is  the 
tune  the  saints  in  heaven  are  playing  on  silvern  lute  and 
golden  harp,  and  making  wonderful  with  their  enraptured 
lips.     "Rejoice!"     Pitch  that  tune,  my  heart. 

Friend,  are  you  converted  now?     Are  you  persuaded  the 
frogs  are  singing?      When  once  again  spring  is  come,  if 


a  im.ack  ok  so  NT- 


coming  you  might  call  that  bashful  look  of  hers,  coming  a 
step  and  looking  backward,  or  going  back  a  whole  day's 
journey, — when  spring  is  coming,  or  come,  or  about  to 
come,  and  the  frogs  tune  up,  friend,  listen  to  them,  and 
wonder  you  had  ever  thought  their  joyous  chorusings 
croakings,  and  had  never  known  their  callings  were  the 
music  of  happy,  happy  hearts. 

102 


THE  SPRING  WIND 


THE    BLESSED    BLUE 


mm 


I 


>--  ? 


jj-WiS*!.      1 


2  S 


The  Spring  Wind 


O,  I  am  like  the  shimmer 
Of  sunlight  on  the  wheat! 

My  voices  they  are  dimmer 
Than  lovers'  when  they  meet. 

My  feet  are  further  going 

Than  waves  that  walk  the  sea; 

The  wild  flowers  are  a-blowing 
And  laugh  out  loud  for  me. 

O,  I  am  Springtimes  lover 
That  wooes  with  kisses  swift; 

And  flowers  like  blushes  cover 
Where  late,  pale  snows  did  drift. 

O,  I  am  called  the  Spring  Wind, 
And  am  in  naught  forlorn, 

And  am  unto  the  stars  kinned, 
And  to  the  dewy  morn! 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 


BENEATH    THE    DROWSY    TREES 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 

The  open  road  is  always  going 
somewhere,  or,  perhaps  more  accur- 
ately, acts  as   if  going  somewhere. 
At  times  it  goes   nowhere;    for  in- 
stance,   to    some    people's    houses. 
But   a   road's   intentions   are   good. 
It   starts   out    blithely.     It    is    open 
everybody.     It    asks    no    pass- 
port.    It    has    no    favorites. 
Raggedness  is  as  welcome  as 
a    crowned    king.     The    road 
is  everybody's  chance. 

Two  kinds  of  road  bid  for 
passengers:  First,  the  busi- 
ness road,  which  is  straight, 
going  on  fence-lines,  some- 
times cutting  eater-cornering 
so  as  to  get  somewhere  right 
off.  This  road  is  not  pleased  with  loiterers,  but  means  busi- 
ness from  start  to  finish  and  business  only.  "We  are  going 
somewhere,  and  are  in  a  hurry  about  it,"  is  what  our  busi- 
ness road  remarks,  if  it  remarks  at  all.  Its  motto  is, 
"Hurry  up."  The  second  kind  of  road  is  the  loitering 
road.  It  goes  not  by  straight  lines  but  by  curves.  It 
meanders  as  a  stream.  A  certain  vagabond  air  in  its  man- 
ner commends  this  road  to  all  vagabonds.  In  its  dictionary 
is  no  such  word  as  hurry;  but  it  goes  off  somewhere,  any- 

113 


GOING? 


where,  for  a  lark,  sometimes  for  a  spree,  always  for  fun; 
going  for  the  sake  of  going,  predisposed  to  loiter.  It  has 
a  sedentary  air,  as  to  say,  "Let  us  sit  down  to  rest,"  im- 
pressing you  always  as  if  climbing  a  mountain  road,  being 
on  the  lookout  for  shadow  of  tree  to  sit  in  and  catch  the 
wandering  wind  blowing  from  far  peaks  sprinkled  with 
recent  snows  or  under  a  granite  bowlder,  where  the  weari- 
ness of  climbing  slips  from  you  like  loneliness  in  the 
presence  of  love.  Both  these  roads  are  necessary.  We 
will  not  be  naggy  and  object  to  either  but,  as  with  a  book 
or  a  person,  may  be  permitted  to  entertain  a  preference. 
For  me,  the  open  road  always;  but  commend  me  with  a 
fusillade  of  laughter  to  the  vagabond  road  going  at  a  snail- 
pace  anywhere! 

I  wonder  if  anybody  could  take  a  road  and  not  quietly 
wonder  where  it  was  going.  I  wonder  if  the  road  it- 
self knows  its  destination.  A  taciturn  body  is  an  open 
road.  You  would  think,  with  passengers  so  many  and  so 
diversified,  a  road  would  grow  garrulous.  But  whatever 
your  thinkings  or  mine,  the  road  keeps  its  own  counsel.  It 
is  a  veritable  oyster,  never  opening  lips  at  brilliant  noon  or 
storm-clouded  night.  All  the  road  thinks  itself  bound  to 
offer  is  passage-way,  not  geography  nor  sense  for  pas- 
sengers.    But  come  to  think  of  it,  that  would  be  ludicrous 


LOST   IN   THE  WOODS 


to  expect  a  road  to  furnish  sense  for  travelers.  No  road 
could  bear  that  incumbrance.  Death  would  ensue  and  that 
right  early.  Nobody  around  just  now  is  erudite  enough  to 
make  the  public  coliege-bred  in  sense.  No,  plainly,  the 
road  can  not  be  expected  to  furnish  sense  or  answer 
questions.  To  point  a  direc- 
tion, to  offer  thoroughfare,  to 
beguile  us  to  going  by  a  way 
made  ready,  certainly  that  is  all 
one  able-bodied  citizen  should 
be  asked  to  do. 

But  an  open  road  invites. 
It  has  an  insinuating  air. 
While  not  lifting  eyebrow  or 
eyelid,  while  keeping  a  discreet 
silence,  it  has,  after  all,  a  way 
of  jogging  a  body  up  to  come 
and  go  along.  I  do  not  under 
take  to  describe  the  method, 
but  name  the  fact.  Every  road 
beckons.  If  asked  to  tell  how 
the  road  acts  insinuatingly,  I 
could  not  for  my  life  tell,  but 
am  as  certain  it  does  as  any- 
thing. Each  road  wants  com- 
pany, and  seems  to  urge,  in  its 

mute,  shy  way,  quite  past  reflecting  on  or  taking  oath  to, 
but  quite  certainly,  "Come  my  way.  Go  with  me.  This  is 
a  pleasant  road.  Don't  you  think  so?  Aren't  you  going 
this  way?"  It  is  like  a  girl  wanting  company,  and  the  bash- 
ful boy  feeling  it,  not  knowing  why.  The  road  urges,  "Be 
a  traveler.  Are  you  a  stay-at-home?  Really  I  thought 
better  of  you.  I!  O,  I  am  going — going?  Where?  No 
matter.  Come  and  go  along."  So,  small  wonder  if  men 
are  travelers  when  the  open  road  beckons.  The  very  fact 
of  unknown  destination  is  an  inducement  to  going.     We 

115 


ALONG   A    MOUNTAIN    STREAM 


shall  find  out  by  and  by.  I  know  not  many  things  more 
exhilarant  than  taking  a  road  you  know  nothing  of,  know 
not  whether  it  will  lead  up  hill  or  down,  by  prairie  way  or 
forest  shadow,  along  the  mystery  of  the  sea  or  the  mystery 
of  pines,  along  marshes  where  crimson  flowers  flame  out  at 
you  like  daggers  tipped  with  fire,  or  along  brown  sands 
that  drift  like  a  land  of  snow;  know  not  whether  it  goes  to 
some  sleepy  village,  where  at  night  the  air  is  fragrant  with 
the  smell  of  woodsmoke  and  the  whole  town  seems  indoors, 
or  to  some  crowded  tumultuous  city,  where  men  jostle  and 
crowd  and  crush  and  laugh  and  curse  and  swagger  or  walk 
worthily  to  some  honorable  destination,  and  dwell  in  cellars 
and  garrets  and  squalor  fitted  to  drive  men  mad,  or  in  opu- 
lence and  in  palaces  fitted  to  house  kings,  in  virtue  or  vice 
beyond  mentioning;  are  as  good  as  saints  and  strong  as 
strength,  or  weak  and  wicked  so  as  to  make  a  good  heart 
break  at  the  single  thought  of  it;  where  women  weep  out 
their  hearts  or  laugh  outright,  touched  to  rejoicing  by  labor 
and  by  love:  or  whether  it  led  away  from  the  crowded  city 
ways  to  quiet  lanes  festooned  by  grapevines  and  wild  hops 
and  ivy  greenery,  and  where  birds  call  from  the  thickets  and 
bid  you,  "Clear  out,  every  one  of  you!"  Whither  goes  the 
road?  To  the  house  where  God  sets  apart  a  place  to  pray, 
and  where  weddings  are  celebrated,  and  where  children 
and  adults  bow  together  at  the  altar  of  the  Christ  to  eat 


THE    BLESSED    SHADOW 
116 


the  broken  body  and  to  drink  spilled  blood,  or  to  God's- 
acre  where  the  broken-hearted  go  to  bury  their  beloved 
and  go  often  afterward  to  weep  and  plant  rosemary  for 
remembrance,  and  to  lean  across  the  grave  and  sob,  "I 
love  you  so,  I  love  you  yet."  -^p 

Whither  goes  the  road? 
Ah  me!  the  one,  the  only 
answer  is,  "This  is  an  open 
road." 

How  many  are  the  open 


roads  across  the   landscape 
of   my   heart!     As    I    sit  to 
write  beside  an  open  road, 
where  cottonwoods  keep  up 
their   incessant    rain    and    a 
vagabond     brook     is     gab- 
bling like  a  pack  of   girls, 
they  beckon  to  me,  these  open  roads, 
through    the    long    years.     One    leads 
to  a   grave   upon   a   mountain   side,   my 
mother's;  one  to  a  grave  upon  the  prairie, 
where  the  west  winds  and  south  winds  love  to  PSAc 

wander  to  and  fro,  my  father's:  to  a  schoolhouse 
at  the  village  edge,  where  I  was  first  in  love  with  a  funny, 
freckled  little  girl,  thin,  very  thin,  and  her  hair  done  up  in 
three  straight  lines,  straight  as  sticks,  and  tied  with  strati- 
fied blue  ribbons:  and  to  a  farm-house  by  a  stream,  its  road 
wandering  over  the  grassy  shoulder  of  a  hill,  down  past 
fields  of  corn  tossing  green  in  summer  and  russet  in  winter, 
past  a  watermelon-patch,  where  melons  lay  pussy  and  green 
on  their  stomachs  through  the  sprawl  of  green  vines,  but 
inwardly  they  were  pink  and  watery,  and  fitted  to  make  a 
small  boy's  mouth  water  and  his  fingers  itch.  But  they 
were  good  to  go  past  and  thump  (plugging  is  below  a 
boy's  notice:  he  knows  too  much  to  do  that).  To  thump 
a  melon,  and  hear  one  sound  just 

117 


ight,  and  then  lift  his 


huge  hulk,  balance  it  gayly  on  the  shoulder,  hie  away  fast 
as  bare  feet  can  run  to  the  shade  where  the  timber  on  the 
creek  builds  a  tent  made  just  right  for  watermelon-eating, 
and  then  to  bust  the  melon,  not  cut  it, — bust  it,  and  get  a 
hunk  of  core  in  a  dirty  hand:  and  where  are  kings  and 
rich  people  generally?  This  is  satisfaction.  Here  is  a 
small  boy's  paradise.  He  needs  no  other.  And  a  gros- 
beak makes  remarks,  and  a  Baltimore  oriole  flames  with 
his  amazing  sunshine  past,  as  in  a  huff  at  not  being  invited 
to  the  fun;  and  the  boy  goes  on  eating  watermelon  where 
it  grew.  Hurrah  for  the  watermelon! — and  it  is  on  this 
road.  What  a  road  to  travel !  Three  cheers  and  a  tiger 
for  the  watermelon  road! — And  down  the  hill  sloping 
slightly  but  persistently,  past  the  stone  barns  on  the  edge 
of  stone  quarries,  and  down  along  a  second  bottom  of  the 
stream  to  a  clump  of  oak-trees  older  than  they  would  care 
to  tell  or  anybody  knows,  where  shadows  are  thick,  and 
winds  pause  to  make  ready  for  another  blow  across  prairies 
which,  though  out  of  sight,  are  yet  near  at  hand;  and  these 
trees  lift  their  shag  tops  toward  a  prairie-hill  eastward, 
where  morning  stands  tiptoe  first,  and  through  innumerable 
dewdrops  glory  leaps  in  ten  thousand  flames.  Under  these 
trees,  whither  this  road  has  made  its  way,  is  a  stone  house, 
its  two  parts  almost  detached,  standing  low  and  stooped, 
and  about  whose  roof  winds  moan  in  Autumn  and  scream 
in  Winter,  and  where  you  may  tell  the  time  of  day  by  the 
dial  of  tree-shadows  slanting  on  the  roof;  and  in  the  meaner 
of  these  semi-detached  houses  a  lad  slept  alone,  under  a 
roof  with  only  shingles  between  him  and  the  night-sky. 
He  felt  the  stars  without  seeing  them.  He  heard  the 
rain's  music.  He  caught  the  jargon  of  the  tempest  when 
the  wild  winters  blew.  He  felt  the  mantle  of  solitude 
wrapping  him  about  and  loved  the  comfort  of  it.  He 
felt  as  if  he  slept  on  the  far  fringes  of  the  prairies  and  the 
seas  and  the  shadowed  edges  of  the  forests  interminable 
and  murky.     At  intervals,  in  high  times  in  his  soul,  he  felt 


™»u.  .,d  ,„„/,  no", ,  L'tr-i  ,h,n  "/• 
:>«s.™,s  ,,ri,B"  — » h»«  -  -  is 


ONE    COUNTRY    ROAD 
121 


ened,  he  heard  afar  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  a  college  bell  on 
its  far  hill,  and  to  him  it  rang  like  silver  chimes  high  hung 
in  some  stately  minster,  only  more  sweet,  more  sweet;  and 
in  the  dark,  rung  in  by  the  chiming  of  the  bell  and  as 
silent  as  the  shadows,  he  came  to  where  his  college  days 
began,  and  where  they  were  to  come  to  honorable  con- 
clusion. But  the  road,  and  the  day,  and  the  night,  and 
the  calling  of  the  bell, — he  hears  them,  feels  them,  sees 
them  all  now,  pungent  as  wood-odors  at  night  when  wood- 
odors  are  plentiful.     Such  an  open  road! 

And  the  road  leading  from  the  cornfield  to  the  stream 
where,  at  noon,  the  thirsty  team  and  I  went  for  our  drink. 
Its  clear  pool  fed  by  a  crystal  spring;  the  stony  bottom 
discernible  through  the  running  water;  the  shadow  beauti- 
ful, till  the  unesthetic  horses  stumbled  in  to  slake  their  thirst 
and  break  the  shadow-picture  into  fragments;  and  a  broken 
tree  grew  close  beside  this  drinking-pool,  broken  by  some 
ruffian  wind  or  angered  thunderbolt,  dismantled  of  green 
leaves  and  whispering  shadows,  but  remanded  with  ivy, 
wherewith  it  was  festooned  like  some  ivy-mantled  tower 
old  as  history  and  sad  as  grief.  In  Summer  this  tower 
stood  green,  like  a  light  seen  through  chrysoprase:  a 
tower  stately  and  fair  exceeding  words;  and  in  the  Fall  the 
tower  stood  glorious  as  if  quarried  from  the  gullies  of 
sunset  and  graceful  as  the  flight  of  swallows  that  flung 
themselves  night  by  night  in  glee  along  the  tinted  rim- 
mings  of  the  upper  sky.  And  that  road,  from  field  to 
watering-place,  was  my  training  in  art  instinct  and  the 
poetry  of  history.  Not  lonely,  lovely,  ivy-mantled  Kenil- 
worth  as  I  saw  it  last  was  so  beautiful  or  historied  as  my 
ivied  castle  by  my  Avon,  when  I  was  a  plowboy  on  the 
Wakarusa. 

An  open  road  stands  with  eyes  of  invitation,  leading 
from  Longmont  to  the  mountains,  crowded  with  shadows 
and  pines  and  waterfalls  and  rocks  and  glad  acclivities. 
The    last    days    of    July    were    moving    sluggishly    like    a 

122 


THE    ROAD    AMONG   THE   PINES 


meadow    stream.     A    road   walked    out    toward    the    blue 
mountains.     Here  was  a  summons.     It  was  morning  by  the 
clock.     The  sky  was  mottled  cloud  and  blue.     Winds  came 
intermittently.     Nature  was  hard  at  work.     July  is  not  the 
month  when  nature  does  her  chores,  but  the  month  when 
she  works,  her  face  wrinkled  with  sweat 
that  drops  down  on  a  breast  burnt  with 
working  in  the  sun.     The  road  was  in  no 
hurry,  but  wandered  on  leisurely  in  vag- 
abond fashion,  but  looking  all  the  while 
toward    the    blue,    majestic    mountains 
scarred   with    snow   and    bannered   with 
cloud.     And  to    be  alone  on  the  open 
road,  that  is  best.     Seeing  and  talking 
can  not  be  done  at  once,  and  done  well. 
Seeing    monopolizes    all    the    faculties. 
There    are    none    left   for   talk.     So   this 
July  road  and  I  out  alone;  it  leading,  I  following. 
On  either  side  grow  the  harvests;   alfalfa  in 
purple  bloom;  wheat  ready  for  reaping,  some  in 
process  of  reaping,  the  harvester  making  music  KILLDEE, 

good  to  hear;  the  gold  faltering  for  a  second 
as  irresolute,  then  giving  way  to  the  inevitable,  and  tossing 
itself  (not  being  tossed)  out  in  armful  bundles  of  bewilder- 
ing gold,— the  sheaf  which  must  last  forever  as  the  symbol 
of  fertility  and  service  and  work  put  into  terms  of  poet  and 
musician.  In  a  certain  field,  where  the  irrigating  ditch  was 
more  than  ordinarily  lavish  of  its  water  supply,  killdees  in 
abundance  piped  their  cheerless  strain.  A  dapper  lad  is 
the  killdee,  affecting  garments  much  like  Scotch  tweeds, 
and  always  wearing  a  spotlessly  white  standing  collar.  For 
the  life  of  me  I  do  not  see  how  he  succeeds  in  keeping  it 
clean  all  the  time.  I  can't  mine,  and  I  wear  a  lay-down 
collar.  I  fear  Mr.  Dee  has  his  wife  wash  and  iron  more 
than  is  seemly  in  a  first-class  husband.  Or  maybe  she  takes 
a  womanly  pride  in  having  her  husband  dressed  better  than 

125 


the  other  birds'  husbands.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  the  fact  still  re- 
mains that  Mr.  Dee  wears  the 
whitest  collar  I  see  anybody  have 
on.  This  day  is  sweaty-warm, 
and  men-laundered  collars  wilt. 
Not  so  his.  Heat  nor  dust  affects 
his  linen,  and  he  struts  along  with 
his  jocular  walk,  and  talks  inces- 
santly about  family  matters.  He 
and  his  wife  and  all  the  Dees  talk 
about  nothing  except  themselves. 
This  is  decidedly  domestic.  I 
can  scarcely  blame  them.  Talk- 
ing about  one's  own  family  is  a 
human  trait  much  indulged  in; 
and  we  all  do  it  and  en- 
joy it.  Therefore  it  illy 
becomes  me,  a  stranger, 
and  foot-passenger  to 
boot,  to  object  to  the 
conversation  of  so  dis- 
tinguished a  gentleman 
as  Mr.  Dee,  specially 
when  my  collar  is  limp  as 
a  wash-rag  and  I  am  limp 
as  my  collar.  Really  he 
may  snub  me  and  I  will 
not  resent.  He  looks 
cool  as  a  cucumber,  and 
I  feel  hot  as  embers  ready 
to  broil  steak.  But  this  lugubrious  talk  about  Dee  killed, 
kill-kill  killdeed,  is  a  trifle  distressing.  These  birds  look 
frisky,  and  we  look  for  them  to  chirp  out  some  jocose 
observation;  but  they  never  do.  The  Dees  are  killed,  or 
about  to  be,  and  do  n't  want  to  be,  or  they  are  about  to  kill 

126 


■v^v-vi  ^ 


i*v 


I 


THE    RESTFUL    ROAD 


Dees;  and  all  this  is  distressing,  bad  enough.  Across  the 
field,  as  well  as  at  my  very  feet  (for  I  have  temporarily 
crowded  through  the  barb-wire  fence  to  make  up  to  these 
same  killdees),  and  far  out  along  the  sky-line  of  sound,  fly- 
ing low,  the  wind  carries  back  "Killdee,  dee,  dee,  dee;"  and 
I  find  myself  on  the  verge  of  suggesting  that  either  the 
walk  of  this  bird  should  be  more  pathetic  or  his  talk  less 
so.  One's  gait  and  one's  talk  should  keep  step.  How- 
ever, the  killdees  do  not  think  so;  and  that  is  the  end  of  it. 
And  the  bee-weed,  swarming  with  bees,  tosses  its  pink 
blooms;  and  the  sweet  clover,  with  its  perfect  musk  of 
perfume,  so  sweet  that  it  is  no  wonder,  as  I  walk  along- 
side it,  the  hum  of  bees  is  as  if  a  hive  were  there  instead 
of  a  flower.  Can  that  be  set  down  as  a  weed  and  a  nui- 
sance which  gives  daily  bread  for  the  bees  and  honey  for 
hot  biscuits  on  wintry  mornings?  These  are  solemn 
thoughts,  as  we  ministers  say.  And  alfalfa  has  strayed 
out  of  the  field  where  it  has  been  fenced  in,  and  its  smell 
is  sweet,  and  its  bloom  is  purple  as  king's  robes;  and  I 
forget  it  is  grown  for  hay,  and  think  it  is  grown  for  per- 
fume and  poesy.  God  is  so  given  to  blending  utility  with 
aesthetics.  He  loves  to.  And  the  way  is  winsome  as  the 
laughter  of  a  baby  with  the  outstretching  of  its  chubby 
little  hands.  Sunflowers  are  in  evidence,  though  not  in 
abundance.  Golden-rod  is  moving  toward  blooming,  and 
in  scattered  patches  is  in  full  bloom,  flirting  its  bunches 
of  strange  gold  out  to  make  a  poor  man  such  as  I  a  trifle 
covetous.  Horsemint,  with  its  unkempt  frowzy  locks  of 
red,  stands  precise  as  a  soldier.  Horsemint  has  evidently 
not  read  of  combs,  and  affects  them  no  more  than  a 
Mojave  Indian.  But  I  will  not  criticise.  It  would  not  be 
becoming.  And  the  mountains  stand  far  off,  very  wonder- 
ful in  their  wealth  of  shadow  and  bewilderment  of  blue- 
and-white  gleam  of  many  a  snowy  peak.  And  the  open 
road  had  led  me  on  such  a  way,  all  gladness  and  comfort, 
and    outlook   and   uplook.     The  near-at-hand  was   full  of 

127 


homely  beauty,  and  the  far-off,  full  of  the  sublime,  mountains 
and  skies  and  the  wide  landscapes  beyond  both,  which  lead 
out,  forever  out. 

One  other  road  led  among  the  hills;  turning,  turning, 
no  manner  of  method  in  its  goings;  just  a  gadding  road, 
busy  going  nowhere  as  any  one  knows  of;  leading  down 
along  a  shy  brook,  whispering,  not  talking  aloud;  or  over  a 
bridge  rotting  down,  as  anybody  can  see  or  feel  who  walks 
across  it,  for  it  teeters  so  beneath  the  foot,  but  is  delightful 
in  its  rusticity;  and  if  the  sagging  thing  fell,  who  would 
be  hurt?  Only  a  dousing  in  a  summer  stream;  and  who 
would  worry  at  a  thing  like  that?  Who  would,  is  not 
worthy  to  be  a  passenger  on  the  outside  of  nature's  coach. 
So  along  the  turnings  of  the  brook,  road  nor  brook  in 
any  hurry  as  is  apparent,  and  up,  climbing  as  uncertain  in 
intent;  then  past  a  farm-house  good  to  look  at,  minding 
a  man  of  country  dinners  where  dishes  were  not  many  but 
victuals  inviting,  chicken  brown  and  irresistible,  and  bis- 
cuits fresh  from  where  biscuits  ought  to  come;  past  such 
a  farm-house,  hard  to  pass  therefore;  past  haycocks,  along 
a  ravine  through  the  field,  where  children  were  playing, — 
Road,  stop  a  minute  and  look.  Can  you  let  children  play, 
and  you  not  care  to  stand  stock-still  and  look?  So,  that 
is  better.  We  are  in  no  hurry  while  children  play — with 
their  petulancies,  giggles,  talkings  all  at  once,  wild  shriek- 
ings,  and  mischievousness,  and  quarrelings  soon  made, 
soon  ended.  Well,  it  is  all  good,  isn't  it,  open  Road? 
We  were  that  way  once.  Bless  me,  you  and  I  are  laughing 
like  children  ourselves.  I  am  glad  I  came  this  way;  and 
the  road  chuckles  from  gladness,  and  mosies  on  under 
deep  shade  cast  by  an  old  elm  where  the  sun  has  no  chance 
at  shining.  Elms  beat  parasols  to  keep  off  the  sun.  When 
an  elm  sets  his  head  to  make  shadow,  the  sun  may  as  well 
quit  business.  What  a  luxury  to  lie  down,  as  the  road  and 
I  do,  in  this  somnolent  shadow,  where  not  one  grass-blade 
of  sunlight  pierces  through,  and,  lying  on  the  back,  look 

128 


THE    MOUNTAIN    ROAD 


through  the  chequered  roofing  of  leaves,  green  as  if  fresh 
dripping  with  the  drench  of  nature's  dyes!  How  thick  an 
elm-tree  foliage  is!  Leaves  small,  but  multitudinous. 
The  sycamore  has  foliage  big  as  lily-pads,  but  sunlight  can 
slip  round  those  leaves  in  a  jiffy-,  and  give  your  lips  a 
burning  kiss,  and  the  leaves 
elm-leaves  make  a  roof  good 
summer  shower,  unless  it 


[JkMu 


never  know  it;  but 
to  be  under  in  a 
lasts    too    long. 


■m 


0% 


Under     the     dense 
I    lie    and    drift    into 
ing;    and    the    tinkling 
bell  goes  on  systematic 
ringing   of    the   old-fash 
bell.    This  cow  is  at  dinner, 
own    dinner-bell,    and    the 
minds  me — but  no  matter. 


A  GROUP  OF  SUNS 


shadow 
wonder- 
of  a  cow- 
ally    as    the 
ioned   hotel- 
and    rings    her 
sound  of   it  re- 
I     am     not    be- 


come garrulous  with  age.  The  brook — it,  too,  in  shadow — 
is  laughing  at  some  joke  of  its  own;  and  I  laugh,  not  know- 
ing the  joke.  That  is  the  good  of  anybody,  brook  or 
woman  or  man,  laughing  out  loud.  The  people  who  hear 
can  laugh  with  them  without  the  chore  of  finding  out  the 
joke.  But  the  open  road  grows  weary  of  too  much  loiter- 
ing, and  goes  uphill  now  in  earnest,  and  through  a  gap 
in  the  fence  along  toilingly,  but  not  complainingly;  up  to 
the  edging  of  hills  that  drip  like  house-eaves  in  Autumn; 

131 


past  apple-trees  grown  old  in  years  and  fruitage,  and  now 
resting  from  their  labors,  but  not  from  their  greenery  or 
songs  of  hid  birds,  or  shadows,  where  the  lazy  cows  may 
stand  and  ruminate.  Under  the  shadows  we  shall  find 
balsam  and  shade,  both  enticing;  and  thither  the  road  leads 
us  worn  almost  to  a  thread  of  a  pathway,  but  losing  nothing 
in  beauty  and  wayward  fancy.  And  it  loiters  beside  a 
deserted  cabin  occupied  only  by  emptiness  and  memories 
and  the  slow  climbing  of  the  mosses,  and  on — well,  the 
road  is  dim  and  grown  green,  and  springs  beneath  the 
foot,  and  has  itself  forgotten  where  it  was  going.  Maybe 
the  road  is  fatigued  with  the  journey  or  old  age,  or  both. 
Yet  I  never  thought  of  its  being  an  aged  road  when  we 
made  our  start  together.  But  something  ails  the  road. 
It  has  dwindled  away  to  a  slip  of  green  amongst  the  trees. 
But  what  trees!  Trees  cresting  the  hill  like  green  spray, 
or  standing  tiptoe,  looking  far;  pausing  for  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  the  Hudson  lying  to  the  westward;  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  Housatonic,  lying  like  a  twisted  silver  rib- 
band in  the  valley,  not  quite  remote,  not  quite  near  at 
hand;  seeing  hills  toss  up  in  indolent  motion  as  of  a  tired 
wave  but  staying  suffused  with  music  of  birds  and  winds, 
and  chequered  with  sunlight  and  shadow  and  crossed  with 
happy  hollows  where  waters  make  merry  all  the  day  and 
all  the  night;  trees  standing  tiptoe,  and  failing  to  see  the 
stream  for  which  their  eyes  are  lifting,  but  seeing  the  sky 
which  leans  over  all — river  and  hilltops  and  treetops, — see- 
ing the  sky  and  sighting  the   sun. 

"Counting  the  hilltops  one  by  one." 

And  my  road  has  fallen  fast  asleep  amongst  these  hill- 
top trees.  And  you  are  well  asleep,  vagabond  Rip  Van 
Winkle;  for  did  we  not  read  of  him  that  he  awoke  rusty  of 
joints  and  brain,  and  with  gun  bitten  into  with  rust  and 
rottenness?  But  this  road  is  fast  asleep  forever,  clean 
tired  out  with  journeyings.  And  the  trees,  now  I  under- 
stand, the  trees  are  swaying  a  lullaby. 

132 


SUNFLOWERS 


STRAGGLING    SUNLIGHT 


m 


SUMMER 

LAMPS 


SUNFLOWERS 

The  sunflower  is  a  heathen.     This  is 
regrettable.      It  is  high  time  all   heathen 
j    were    converted.     But    the    sunflower    is 
I    what    he    has    been    since    the    first    noon 
3    washed    his    disc   with    glory, — a    Parsee. 
I  think  no  hope  of  reformation  need 
'Kit* 'be  entertained.     Sun-worshiper  he  is 
^pre-ordained  to  be.     But  who  could 
blame  a  flower  for  being  a  sun-wor- 
shiper?    The  one  wonder   is   that  all  of 
them     are     not.       But    whoever     among 
blooming  things  fails  in  allegiancy  to  the 
sun,  the  sunflower  does  not.     That  alle- 
giancy is    pathetic    as    well   as  engaging. 
It  is  so  unwavering,  so  absolute,  so  frank, 
so  glad.    Smile  for  smile  this  flower  gives 
and  keeps  no  reckoning. 

(He  keeps  vigil  for  the  sun.  Poppies  fall 
b\leep  when  daylight  fades,  to  wake  when  daylight 
wakes.  This  seems  a  high  allegiancy,  and  is,  but 
in  the  presence  of  a  higher,  must  make  way.  Sun- 
flowers fear  to  go  to  sleep  at  evening  lest  they 
should  not  be  awake  to  greet  the  sun.  He  must  not  find 
his  votaries  asleep.  He  must  find  them  awake  and  watch- 
ing for  his  coming.  And  so,  when  the  sun  lifts  flame  above 
the  reddened  East,  he  finds  hosts  on  hosts  of  splendors 
like  his  own,  only  lesser  as  befitting  such  as  have  been  lent 
their  flame   by  him,    standing  wide-eyed,   wondering,   and 

137 


watching.     And  must  the  sun 
gladden  a  little  at  this  sight, 
think  you?     When  the   great 
hulk  of  the  solid  world  must 
be    wakened    by    him,    babes 
and  birds  and  valleys  and  the 
distant   gloom  of  foreboding 
mountains    and   the 
|  drifting   tides   of    the 
wide  sea  and  the  more 
*^#*v  than    tired     multitudes 

^L-      s^*$>     °f  mothers  asleep  through 
\''  >the  fatigue  of  love-watches 

S   a  many  and   severe  and  men 

/    VV  '•-.  tired    nigh    to    death    with 

labors  manifold  and 
.iflkt  the  hushed  quiet  of 
the  clover-beds  fast 
asleep  beyond  the 
reach  of  dreams  and  anvils 
lying  cold  and  bleak,  un- 
touched by  one  red  link 
wherewith  the  brawny 
smith  changes  anvil  to 
altar, — all  asleep;  but  the 
sunflower  awake  and  vig- 
lant  as  sentinel  upon  the 
and  when  the  sun  tries  to 
slip  past  him  to  the  waking  of  the 
world,  the  sunflower  makes  obei- 
sance and  salutes  the  king,  and 
flashes  golden  shield  full  in  the 
sun's  face,  saying  wistfully,  "We 
who  are  about  to  die,  salute  you;"  and  the  sun  smiles  exult- 
antly, and  calls,  "Morning!"^) 

There    may    be   those,    and    doubtless    are,    who    think 
138 


WATCHING 

THE  SUNSET 


slightingly  of  this  royal  flower.  Things  prevalent  do  not 
entice  them.  Only  scarce  things  are  precious.  Gems  are 
priceless  because  few.  If  they  were  as  multitudinous  as 
dewdrops'  splendor,  they  would  be,  to  them,  cheap.  With 
such  slender  souls  I  have  no  mood  to  argue.  They  are 
not  worth  while.  They  value  the  orchids  because  they  are 
high-priced.  Sunflowers  will  not  beckon  to  these.  They 
have  no  call  to.     Let  them  beckon  to  better  folks. 

Browning  has  things  right  when  he  talks  of  this  bloom 
being 

"Spread  out  like  a  sacrifice." 


They  belong  to  the  sun.  They  are  royal,  not  in  their  own 
right,  but  by  the  gift  of  him.  So  are  we  all,  as 
for  that;  but  the  rest  of  us  do  not  know  it. 
They  are  wiser  than  we  and  better.  Their  a  -f- 
fealty  is  wholesome.  Lovers  of  the  sun!  ,4, 
Could  a  flower  study  out  a  finer  perform- 
ance in  a  whole  flower  lifetime?  And  to 
see,  as  the  day  marches  on  at  the  bid- 
ding of  the  sun,  a  wide  field  of  sun-  . 
flowers  turn  faces  of  radiant  gold  sun- 
ward, sunward,  ever  sunward,  until 
when  evening  comes,  and  the  sun,  as  if 
loath  to  bid  his  world  good-night,  ling- 
ers a  little  on  the  western  slopes,  a  whole 
world  of  sunflowers  watches  his  going 
with  but  a  single  eye,  as  to  say,  "Yours  we 
are,  and  as  you  find  us  now,  watching  you 
setting,  so  on  the  morrow  you  shall  find  us 
watching  your  rising.  We  be  the  appointed 
watchers  for  the  king."  (And  the  sun  waits  no 
longer;  for  he  can  not.  Other  shores  wait  for  his 
sunrise.  He  must  be  gone.  Sleeping  isles  are  clamorous 
for  dawn.  And  the  sun  is  set;  but  these  watchers  for  the 
sun  are  as  just  risen.     Their  eyes   are   sunlit;    their   faces 

139 


PLAGIARISTS  OF 
THE   SUNFLOWERS 


radiant.  They  are  a  visible  laughter.  They  do  not  mope. 
Clouded  days  can  not  dim  their  light;  they  do  the  rather 
increase  it.  On  such  days,  when  the  sun  is  angry  or 
grieved  or  incompetent,  these  viceroys  think  themselves 
held  in  his  honor  to  flame  for  him  and  them;  and  their 
light  fairly  dazzles  the  eyes. 

For  myself,  I  love  the  sunflower.  Nor  is  this  told  in 
privacy.  I  care  not  who  knows  it.  Since  as  a  lad  I  saw 
them  flame  along  the  ruts  worn  by  prairie  schooners  in 
level  prairies,  and  had  no  one  to  hint  that  those  profuse 
fires  were  sacred  and  had  bewilderments  of  beauty  in 
them,— since  then  I  have  warmed  my  heart  by  their  blaze, 
and  have,  in  my  blind  way,  exulted  in  them.  To  me  they 
are  not  common  flowers.  They  are 
uncommon  flowers.  No  man  with 
passion  for  cutting  things  down  can 
cut  a  sunflower  from  my  yard  any 
more  than  he  could  cut  down  a  mul- 
lein. These  are  sacred  to  one  man's 
heart.  They  mind  him  of  the  light 
which  lights  the  sun.  Their  quintes- 
cent  radiance  has  legends  of  lights 
behind  lights  and  dawns  behind 
dawns,— the  deathless,  unlit  dawns 
of  God.  A  brave  State  has  this 
flower  for  its  device.  The  sunflower  be- 
haves well,  graven  on  a  shield.  Its  glory 
splashes  on  one's  garments.     Splendor,  and 

tto  spare,  is  what  the  sunflower  has  a  fond- 
ness  for   saying.     Large    giving    does    not 
make  for  loss.     An  entire  prairie  splashed 
or  rimmed  with  this  gorgeousness,  and  the 
sunflowers  do  not  miss  the  light  they  lose. 
It  is  like  laughter:  the  more  we  laugh,  the  more  our  laugh- 
ters  are   increased.     We   gain    by   spending.    l.Withal    the 
sunflowers  are  something  of  moralists,  though  not  prcsaic 

140 


RELATIVES  OF 

THE   SUNFLOWER. 


ones,    and    never    bores.     They    burn,    a    happy,   wasteless 
splendor,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  sun. 

They  are  frontiersmen.  I  like  them  for  that.  More,  I 
bless  them  for  that.  They  are  flowering  hardihoods. 
They  like  the  company  of  pioneers.  The  mover's  wagon 
makes  them  giggle;  and  a  camper's  fire  makes  them  laugh 
out  loud.  They  are  not  dwellers  in  kings'  houses.  They 
riot  with  the  ill-clad  and  the  poor  and  the  eaters  of  corn- 
bread  baked  in  the  ashes.  They  are  proud  of  those  who 
move  West,  and  want  to  be  counted  of  their  company. 
They  like  hard  times.  Think  of  that.  Most  folks  growl 
at  hard  times.  I  have  heard  them,  so  that  this  remark  is 
no  hearsay.  It  is  too  authentic.  But  sunflowers  delight 
to  grow  where  nothing  else  wants  to.  The  hard  roadside 
is  their  pet  pleasure.  They  will  grow  in  kindlier  regions, 
but  not  by  wish.  Hard  times  suit  them.  They  never  lie- 
down,  so  hard  beds  they  know  nothing  of;  and  standing 
up,  they  like  good  footing;  but  there  they  are  anyhow,— 
up,  tall,  and  radiant,  and  on  the  borders.  They  like  out- 
doors. They  want  prairie-room.  They  want  sky-room 
and  stand  all  heights  from  the  knee-high  to  a  child  to  the 
tallness  of  a  ranger  on  horseback.  They  constitute  the 
plumes  of  this  Western  knighthood;  and  right  regal  they 
are. 

Sunflowers  are  masculine  gender.  This  is  not  said  in 
disrespect  to  the  feminines,  but  out  of  self-respect  to  the 
masculines.  Most  flowers  are  feminine  gender.  Their 
winsome  weeness,   loveliness,   delicacy,    fragility,    are    such 


bequests  as  come  to  womanhood.  A  rose  is  like  some 
queenly  woman,  and  a  violet  like  some  woman  of  unob- 
trusive loveliness,  a  lily  like  stately  women  we  have  met 
and  remembered;  but  sunflowers  are  men-flowers,  rude, 
ungainly,  coarse-garmented,  brawny,  naked-armed,  unafraid 
of  wind,  rain,  sunburn,  fierce  heats,  freckles,  unware  of 
complexion,  giving  no  heed  to  finery,  garmented  in  a  stout 
suit  of  Kendal  green,  and  growing  lusty  as  fields  of  corn. 
Virile  is  the  word  which  applies  itself  to  them.     A  weed 


LOOKING    FOR   THE   SUNFLOWERS 


this  plant  looks  till  it  blooms  out  into  tumultuous  gold; 
and  then  all  the  world  could  answer,  here  was  a  flower. 

And  a  forest  of  sunflowers,  every  limb  wearing  its  flame, 
which  blows  not  out  with  any  gales  of  wind,  but  wags 
indolently  as  doing  so  not  out  of  necessity  but  out  of 
preference, — than  such  a  forest  what  has  more  glory?  It 
is  as  if  a  forest  were  on  fire,  only  with  a  genial  flame,  and 
not  with  such  as  turns  cities  into  ashes  and  dreariness  of 
desolation. 

And  they  are  far-seen  flowers.  Across  wide  prairies, 
along  some  invisible  wagon-road,  these  proud  glories  lift 
up  their  golden  banners  like  an  army  unafraid  and  on  the 

144 


march;  and  they  march  on  and  on,  miles,  miles,  and  miles, 
with  footstep  never  flagging,  with  banners  never  drooping 
nor  sullied,  with  joy  that  looks  as  if  it  would  lift  itself 
into  a  song  on  any  moment,  and  cries  of  tumultuous 
triumph.  It  is  easier  to  keep  heart  when  sunflowers  are 
around.  Their  gladness  and  aggressiveness  are  a  contagion 
hard  to  keep  from  catching.  They  are  nobodies  to  the 
unthinking  many;  but  this  is  insignificant  to  them.  They 
are  out  of  doors:  they  are  fronting  dawns,  noons,  sunsets, 
and  then  dawns  again:  they  are  sufficient  for  themselves: 
they  are  having  good  times:  they  are  giving  heart  to  some- 
body: they  are  gathering  the  dust  of  long  roadways  on 
their  green  garments:  they  are  growing,  with  scant  thanks 
to  the  rain-cloud:  they  are  growing  in  the  swirls  of  the 
hot  winds,  and  matching  their  fire  with  fire:  they  are 
unaware  of  impediments  and  aware  of  the  sun  and  the  earth 
and  the  call  of  the  winds  and  the  vision  of  the  prairies, 
and  so  grow  tall  and  glorious,  and  radiant  as  joy,  and 
beautiful  as  new-mined  gold  and  bewildering  as  a  multitude. 
Sunflower,  I  love  thee.  May  thy  gold  never  fade  nor 
diminish  and  may  smiles  stay  bright  upon  thy  face  while 
this  world  lasts!     Hail  to  thee,  brave  lover  of  the  sun! 


10 


THEY  WISH  THEY  WERE  SUNFLOWERS 
145 


THE  PASSING  OF  AUTUMN 


AT  SUMMER  NOON 


THE  PASSING 

OF  AUTUMN 

Autumn  was  walking  out 
alone,  with  a  crown  of  golden 
leaves  set  lightly  on  her 
brow.  I  strained  my  eyes 
to  see  from  what  tree  she 
had  plucked  her  garland, 
but  was  s  c  a  r  c  e  1  y  near 
enough  to  determine  with 
certainty;  but  from  their  size 
and  rare  tawniness  I  guessed 
them  to  be  tulip-leaves,  which 
for  golden  beauty  have  no 
partners  in  all  the  companies 
of  autumnal  leafage.  Her  hair 
S  brown,  but  so  that  a  sudden  sunburst 
made  it  blaze;  but,  passing  again  into 
shadow,  the  locks  were  brown  as  dried  wal- 
nuts, and  made  my  hands  anxious  to  caress 
their  braided  loveliness.  She  had  bound  her 
hair  after  the  fashion  of  the  Greek  maidens; 
and  her  garments  hung  like  a  Greek  maiden's 
garment,  bewitching  for  grace.  Her  arms  were  bare; 
and  on  her  left  wrist  she  wore  a  bracelet  woven  of  the 
dulled  splendor  of  wheat;  and  she  was  cinctured  (not 
tightly  as  with  a  lover's  arm,  but  loosely  as  in  sheer  indo- 
lence) with  a  crimson  girdle  wrought  of  leaves  from  the 
vines  that  twist  trees  about  with  their  glow  as  of  lin- 
151 


'the  days  that 

ARE    NO    MORE 


ivy 


gering  sunsets.  On  her  breast  hung  long,  swaying  tendrils 
of  bindweed  and  smilax: — the  one  with  its  gentle  green 
and  exquisite  shape;  the  other  with  its  green,  vivid  as  if  it 
had  been  kissed  by  the  lips  of  Springtime  not  a  moment 
before.  Her  garment  (and  I,  not  being  a  woman,  can  not 
in  reason  be  asked  to  tell  its  texture;  such  knowledge  is 
too  wonderful  for  me;  all  a  man  can  undertake  to  say  con- 
cerning any  woman's  garment  is  that  it  seemed  meant  for 
her  and  became  her  as  a  thing  of  course)  was  in  color  like 
the  rusty  gold  of  shocked  corn;  and  the  garment  was 
mobile,  caressing  her  fair  form  as  a  wind  caresses  a  rose- 
garden,  and  seemed,  as  she  moved,  undulant  as  a  wave. 
Her  garment  was  hemmed  with  gold  braid  made  from  the 
heavy  heads  of  wheat,  and  wrought  as  by  rare  needle-work; 
and  the  vesture  was  figured  with  Autumn  leaves  of  all 
shrubs  and  trees,  so  cunningly  wrought  as  to  seem  a-falling 
each  from  the  branch  whereon  it  grew,  and  in  the  air  eddy- 
ing to  the  earth  as  in  no  haste  to  reach  it. 

Her  face  I  can  not  tell  of,  though  I  looked  at  it  wist- 
fully. All  I  then  saw,  and  now  know,  was  that  the  face 
was  full  of  sorrow  as  of  a  woman  whose  lover  has  been 
long  delayed  in  his  returning  from  the  wars — a  face  full  of 
pathos  and  pleading.  And  as  she  walked  I  thought  I 
heard  her  sob.  Her  head  was  a-droop  like  a  wearied 
flower,  so  that  I  wished  I  might  hold  it  on  my  shoulder  as 
a  lover  would;  and  she  was  so  alone.  She  walked  thus 
down  the  road  thick  with  Autumn  dust,  and  down  lower  on 
the  hill  where  the  corn-husker  can  be  seen  loading  his 
wagon  with  the  husked  corn  yellow  as  sunflowers  in  full 
bloom,  while  his  horses  lunch  off  of  the  corn-blades 
when  they  can  not  get  at  the  corn-ears;  and  the  dog  goes 
in  his  long  detours  to  sight  a  rabbit,  and  runs  panting 
after  the  shrewd  little  scalawag,  who  beats  him  in  the  race 
and  dodges  him  at  the  brier-patch;  and  the  farmer  is  whist- 
ling softly  to  himself  as  from  a  happy  heart,  a  thing  good 
to  hear.     And  there,  too,  the  black-birds  are  talking  all  at 

152 


once,  with  voices  pitched  to  the  key  of  a  guttural  unmu- 
sical and  yet  musical  music;  and,  seeing  them,  Autumn 
lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  were  full  of  tears. 

And  she  sang  a  song  whose  words  I  could  not  wholly 
hear,  since  she  sang  softly  and  sometimes  in  whispers,  and 
her  tears  spilled  into  her  words;  but  the  temper  of  her 
song  I  quite  understood.  She  was  singing  a  song  of  lone- 
liness and  longing;  and  by  and  by,  her  voice  lifting  like  a 
sob  rising  in  the  heart,  I  understood 

"  O  blackbirds,   blackbirds,   flying  South  !" 

and  the  blackbirds  swung  in  black  surges  above  her, 
and — as  she  sang  in  sobbing  cadences,  their  guttural 
voices  softened  their  asperities  and  took  on  a  half- 
languorous,  half-tender  melody,  and  their  close-ranked 
flight,  black  as  a  cloud  of  gathering  storm,  dropped 
low  and  yet  lower,  like  a  cloud  of  black  mist  on  a 
night  settling  down  about  the  tree-tops,  until  they  en- 
veloped her  in  their  cloud;  and  I  gathered  that  they 
knew  their  queen,  and  their  queen  knew  they  were 
training  for  the  long  flight  to  the  spring-land  and  the 
sunlit  South;  and  she  had  heartache  as  one  see- 
ing she  was  to  be  forsaken.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  the  black  music  clomb  the  sky  in  a  long 
spiral,  then  swung  high  like  the  mad  wave  of  a£  , 
stormy  sea,  until  I  could  not  hear  their  incon-'""^ 
gruous  voices,  so  far  up  the  sky  they  were;  and 
then  they  drifted  South  swiftly  and  high,  nor  wheat  stalks 
left  a  single  loiterer  behind,  and  "fainter  on- 
ward," while  Autumn  stood  motionless,  and  lifted  her  right 
hand  high  till  her  garment  slipped  back  to  the  shoulder, 
and  her  fair  arm  shone  white  as  early  dawn;  and  she  waved 
the  flitting,  winged  cloud  good-bye,  and  stood — her  eyes  so 
wistful,  so  wistful,  as  one  who  stands  upon  the  pier  and 
strains  eyes  to  see  the  last  sweet  sight  of  a  lover  going 
on  a  departing,  distant  ship. 

153 


And  it  was  in  my  heart  to  speak  to  her,  but  dare  not 
lest  I  affright  her;  and,  once  more,  she  who  had  ceased 
singing  began  again  softly,  softly — 

Soft  and  low,   soft  and  low" — 

and  rose  imperceptibly  to  herself  till  I  caught  her  meaning 
and  words  together.  She  was  singing  words  a  sweet  poet 
had  written  for  her,  though  till  then  I  knew  not  it  was  for 
sad  Autumn  he  had  written  them.  So  she  sang  in  a  voice 
tremulous  and  tearful, — 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  ami  strange  as  in  dark  Summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

It  was  pitiful  to  hear  and  very  sweet,  just  as  it  is  pitiful 
and  sweet  to  hear  a  woman  sobbing.  Her  plaintive  voice 
fitted  the  plaintive  verses;  and  she  had  set  the  words  to 
music  of  her  own,  and  yet  a  tune  I  felt  I  had  heard  some- 
where, though,  at  the  time  she  sang,  I  could  not  tell  when 
and  where,  but  afterwards  recalled  it  was  the  music  the 
sea  makes  on  deserted  shores  at  evening,  and  the  wind 
makes  on  November  nights  among  the  leafless  trees  when 
it  is  raining. 

So  Autumn  walked,  not  as  seeing,  but  as  hearing.  She 
was  like  a  blind  girl  walking,  paying  no  heed  but  going 
not  amiss.  She  walked  past  the  golden-rod  which  had  lost 
its  gold  splendor  but  not  its  shapeliness;  and  past  the  sun- 
flowers lolling  a  little  as  sleeping  gondoliers  in  Venice  on 
the  shining  sea;  and  past  where  vines  tangled,  blurred 
with    the    blue-black    of    the    wild    grape;     and    on    where 

154 


sumacs  flamed  their  startling  scarlets  on  you,  and  on,  where 
the  rabbit  scampered  into  the  brier-thicket  as  even  afraid 
of  her  (such  silly  fear  the  rabbits  know;  their  very  bravery 
is  cowardice);  and  up  the 
long  winding  road  taking  its 
own  time  and  own  way  to  the 
hilltop;  and  then,  when  seem- 
ing to  mean  nothing  other 
than  to  climb  the  hill  to  its 
wooded  and  lovely  top,  she 
turned  aside  into  a  thicket  of 
weeds  taller  than  a  man  on 
horseback,  and  I  lost  sight  of 
her,  but  knew  she  was  still 
restless  in  wandering,  hearing 
her  trampling  the  dry  weeds 
under  her  naked  feet;  for  I 
had  noted  that  Autumn 
walked  barefoot  as  I  had  seejjl 
Summer  do,  though  it  had 
been  told  me  by  such  as  loved 
to  wander  in  dim  Autumn 
woods  and  through  remote 
fields,  where  the  solitude  held 
its  quiet,  free  from  the  oft 
intrusions  of  mankind,  that 
they  had  seen  this  sweet  re- 
cluse wearing  sandals  made 
from   grasses  grown   in   deep 

ravines;  and  I  had  not  for  a  moment  doubted  those  lush, 
growing  grasses  would  make  apt  covering  for  a  fair  woman's 
feet;  but  as  I  have  told,  when  mine  eyes  saw  Autumn  she 
walked  barefoot  as  Rebecca  coming  to  the  well  where  Abra- 
ham's steward  waited,  praying  he  might  find  a  woman  meet 
in  grace  and  beauty  to  be  Isaac's  wife: — Down  through  tall 
weeds  brown  as  an  Indian's  cheek;  on  and  on,  till  she  came 

155 


WHERE   SUMMER  TROD 


to  the  wood's  edge  once  more,  where  grew  the  last  of  the 
purple  asters  in  tattered  but  jaunty  flower;  and  further, 
where  walnuts,  half  black,  half  green,  strewed  the  ground, 
making  odors  better  to  lovers  of  the  woods  than  costly 
perfumes,  whereat  she  stopped  and  stooped  and  gathered 
a  handful  (her  left  hand),  and,  lifting  them,  inhaled  their 
breath  as  if  she  were  smelling  white  clovers  in  a  June  field, 
whereupon  I  was  glad,  because  myself  had  done  the  like 
through  many  years,  and  who  is  the  man  not  glad  to  have 
his  pet  judgment  verified  and  certified  by  a  lovely  woman? 
But  as  I  have  told,  so  Autumn  did,  and,  smelling  the 
walnuts,  walked  deep  into  the  woods,  all  but  leafless  now; 
for  walnut-trees  had  never  a  leaf,  and  the  hickories  would 
now  and  then  let  fall  a  straying  yellow  leaf;  and  she  waded 
ankle-deep  in  this  Autumn  stream  of  withered  foliage.  Up 
and  down  she  walked  amid  the  rustling  leaves  sweet-scented 
as  cinnamon  groves  and  musical  as  the  happy  human  voice; 
up  and  down  she  waded  through  these  delicious  leaves,  as 
a  child  might  wade  in  the  clear  waters  of  a  little  brook; 
and  so  walking,  she,  to  my  gladness  and  surprise,  laughed 
out  loud,  and  sang  sweetly  and  joyfully,  like  a  bobolink's 
rollicking  song,  and  as  I  have  heard  the  brown  thrush  in 
the  green  hedgerow.  She  sat  down  and  leaned  against  a 
walnut  trunk,  dark  and  beautiful,  and  tossed  the  leaves 
about  with  her  tanned  hands,  and  when  she  heard  the 
squirrel  chatter  from  a  leafless  redbud  near  at  hand,  she 
laughed  again  with  a  silvern  laughter  good  for  a  man's 
heart  to  hear,  so  that  I  quite  forgot  that  I  had  heard  her 
sobbing.  She,  watching  the  squirrel,  held  a  walnut  toward 
him,  and  he  came  down  from  the  redbud,  and  scampered 
through  the  rustling  leaves,  and  sat  in  her  lap,  and  chat- 
tered jocosely  as  if  he  were  her  friend  for  ages,  and  took 
the  walnut  from  her  hand  and  then  fell  asleep,  and  she 
covered  him  up  with  leaves.  And  I  knew  her  to  be  Queen 
of  the  Autumn.  With  the  squirrel  asleep,  and  her  hands 
lying  idly,  she  sang,  only  I  knew  not  the  words  nor  music; 

156 


and  she  watched  the  blue  sky  crossed  with  branches  soft  as 
etcher's  lines,  and  marked  the  goings  of  the  clouds,  and 
seemed  as  in  a  dream  while  she  saw  the  smoke-puffs  and 
trailings  of  the  cirrus 
clouds,  so  remote  and  grace- 
ful that  all  attempts  to  tell 
of  them  must  end  in  failure. 
And  the  sun  was  hurry- 
ing as  one  belated,  and  cow- 
bells, homeward  going, 
were  making  music  across 
the  woodland,  and  some 
lads  were  scurrying  across 
the  fields  with  bravos  of 
laughter;  and  Autumn 
smiled  as  remembering  her 
brothers.  And  the  crows 
were  cawing  homeward  with 
much  babble  and  brother- 
liness;  when,  without  any 
warning  whatsoever,  a  wild 
wind  sprang  out  of  the 
North,  and  the  leaves  were 
scattered  every  whither  like 
timid  sheep,  and  the  squir- 
rel, lying  asleep  near  Au- 
tumn's hand,  woke  with  a 
start,    and    went    scurrying 

with  the  wild  drifting  of  the  leaves;  and  columns  of 
gray  clouds  drove  wildly  across  the  sky,  and  the  light 
dimmed  as  in  no  mood  for  further  shining,  and  the  sun 
forgot  to  show  his  kindly  face;  and  on  a  sudden  came  dull, 
gray  evening,  though  the  hour  for  evening  was  not  yet; 
and  the  wild  winds  made  mad  music  in  the  tree-tops, 
which  writhed  under  the  fury  of  its  lashings  and  sobbed 
like  the  melancholy  sea. 

157 


ACROSS   THE    LONELY   HILLS 


Autumn  sprang  up  and  stood  quivering,  with  face  from 
which  all  light  had  faded;  and  her  cheek  was  white  as  a 
dead  man's  face,  and  her  lips  were  parted  as  ready  to 
answer  to  a  call,  and  there  came  a  wilder  gust  and  a  rush 
of  Autumn  rain  drenched  the  sky;  and  I  thought  I  heard  a 
wild-bird  flying  high  in  the  midst  of  tempests,  calling 
drearily;  but  she  heard  and  laughed  like  a  June  morning, 
and  called  with  a  voice  of  music  very  wonderful,  "I  am 
coming,  beloved,  coming!"  and  tottered  so  that  I  ran  to 
stay  her  from  falling,  and  clasped  her  to  find  in  my  arms 
and  hands  only  a  garment  of  dull  gold,  like  rusty  corn- 
shocks,  and  at  my  feet  a  scattered  wheat-sheaf,  with  beaded 
heads  like  beaten  gold. 

And  the  gray  sky  became  pitiless,  and  rains  drenched 
fields  and  woods  and  me;  and  darkness  murk  and  utter 
came  down  suddenly,  so  that  in  going  I  stumbled  as  one 
blind  through  the  bleak  darkness,  while  rain  and  wind 
swished  through  the  naked  trees,  and  the  lone  wind  surged 
through  the  blackness  like  the  long  surge  along  a  rocky 
shore,  and  the  rains  drowned  the  withered  leaves,  and  an 
owl  whined  piteously  through  the  rainy  glooms,  and  far 
across  the  wooded  hills  a  sweet  church-bell  called. 

And  Autumn  was  ended  and  Winter  had  begun.  And  I 
held  in  my  hands  a  dripping  garment  of  old  gold  wrought 
into  devices  of  forest-leaves. 


'¥m*& 


THE  SHEAF  OF  WHEAT 


TREE  PILLARS 


k* 


THE   GATEWAY   OF  COFFEEBFAN   PILLARS 


A  HACKBERRY  PILLAR 


TREE  PILLARS 

Everything    man  makes  is  pat- 
terned   after   something   God  makes. 
Men  are   imitators:    God  is  the  only 
inventor.     One  of  the  most  beautiful 
things   man's    hand    has   fashioned   is 
the  pillar.     Nothing  else  so  combines 
beauty  and  strength  and   utility   and 
sublimity.     To  look  on  one  of  those 
Doric  columns,  whose  unadorned  sim- 
plicity challenged   and  challenges  the 
plaudits  of  the  world,  is  to   feel   the 
wonder  of   architecture.     What   long- 
dead   builder  hewed   the  first   marble 
or  granitic  pillar,  and  set  it  up  as  a 
sign  of  what  his  dream  and  hand  con- 
spired to  do  for  a  memorial  to  grace 
and  utility?     We  can  not  guess;  and 
no  record  remains.     Nor  are  we  much 
I    the   losers    by  this    lack.     He  hewed 
I    the  pillar,  and  set  it  on  its  base,  and 
[    gave  room  for  capital  and  architrave. 
:    This  is  the  essential  fact:    all  things 
['    beside  are  subsidiary.    We  mostly  care 
I    that  a  fine  service  is  rendered.     Who 
rendered  it  is  interesting  but  unessen- 
tial detail.     As  we  love  our  benefact- 
ors, we  wish  to  know  these  race  helpers  so  as  to  dwell  upon 
their    names   in    grateful    remembrance;    but   their   service 
praises  them  whosoever  they  be.      Some  builder  executed 

163 


UNDAUNTED 


the  first  column;  and  since  then,  in  marble,  granite,  brass, 
iron,  porphyry,  gray  cathedral  stone,  pillars  have  multiplied 
till  they  have  become  a  company  incredible  for  multitude, 
yet  never  seen  but  to  be  wondered  at  and  rejoiced  in.  For 
myself,  to  steadfastly  regard  noble  columns  is  like  attending 
high  festival.  I  love  their  proportion,  their  stateliness, 
their  massiveness,  which  know  to  hold  on  high  a  temple's 
roof  or  an  amphitheater's  lofty  front.  I  am  enamored  of 
the  spectacle.  The  slender  pillar,  with  not  a  drop  of  sweat 
exuding,  nor  any  moan,  nor  any  sign  of  effort,  with  not 
a  stoop  to  tell  it  is  an  Atlas  holding  up  a  sky,  stands  a 
symbol  of  might  and  youth  outlasting  centuries  of  years. 
And  this  slender  pillar  grips  the  imagination,  and  will  not  let 
it  go.  It  is  imperial.  The  name  of  Caesar  is  not  more  regal. 
Where  was  it  some  old  builder  learned  this  lesson,  this 
lithe  stability,  this  might  refusing  to  bow  down  beneath 
any  burden?  Was  his  the  divine  force  of  creation  as  the 
building  of  the  sky?     Far  from  that.     His  was  the  divine 


gift  of  imitation,  of  vision  and  reproduction.     As  Brunel- 
leschi  beheld  the  dome  of  heaven  and  dared  to  reproduce 
it  for  a  cathedral  roof,  and  did  it  in  such  exultant  fashion 
as  that  it  still  remains  the  wondered-at  delight  of  many  gen- 
erations, so  he  who  fashioned  some  uncouth  quarry-piece 
into  a  pillar,  saw  a  tree-trunk  spring  from  the  brown  mold 
and  bear  its  boscage  royally  aloft,  and  from  that  tree-trunk 
fashioned     his    good    design.       The    pillar    is    tree-trunk 
turned  into  stone.     God  invented  the  pillar:  man  copied  it 
Let    anybody    stand    in    the    serene    presence   of   a    winter 
forest,  where  trees  are  grown  to  manhood  and  their  bulks 
lift  m  varied  and  imposing  symmetry-stand  and  look  at 
their  brave  boles  lift  themselves  on  high-and  ask  himself 
how  differs  this  sight  from  the  fashion  of  columns  in  the 
temple  of  the  Acropolis,  save  that  in  the  temple  the  pillars 
stood  in  decorous  orderliness,  while  in  the  temple  of  the 
woods    the    pillars    stood    in    glorious    disorder,    the    rank 
growths  of  fruitful  soil  enriched  with  centuries  of  withered 
and  fallen  leaves.     "The  groves  were  God's  first  temples  » 
where  the   shadow    and    the    comfort    of    the    roof   where 
moaned  the  tireless  music  of  the  nomad  winds,  were  held 
aloft  by  stately  pillars  of  oak  and  pine  and  ash  and  syca- 
more and  elm  and  tulip  and  cottonwood,  and  sometimes 
by  the  Jachin  and  Boaz  of  the  redwood  of  far-famed  Yosem- 
ite.     With  this  architectural  aspect  of  the  trees  this  writing 
has  to  do— the  pillars  of  the  trees. 

If  any  one  will  walk  through  a  wide  woodland,  casting 
eyes  upon  the  tree-trunks  as  they  lift  themselves  on  high, 
expressions  of  spontaneous  force  very  heartening  to  think 
upon,  limiting  his  look  to  that  part  of  the  trunk  reaching 
to  just  below  the  arm-pits  of  the  first  branches,  that  one 
will  see  what  this  writer  means  by  tree  pillars,  and  will 
have  a  vision  as  if  he  had  strayed  among  the  forgotten 
pillars  of  ancient,  dispeopled  temples. 

And  it  is  worthy  of  regard  how  many  aspects  a  forest 
has.     We  shall  not  compass  a  landscape  of  trees  all  at  once. 


One    thing    at   once    is    nature's 
rule  from  which  it  is  hard  to  de- 
viate.    I  have  often  tried  to  get 
the    complete    impression    of    a 
summer  or  winter    forest,  hold- 
ing  to    the    particulars   so    that 
each    should    stand    in    its    own 
dignity,  abating    nothing  of  its 
claim,  and  get  the   meaning   of 
the  whole  besides,  and  have  ever 
found  the  effort  futile.     I  would 
get    the    tree    in    its   totality  by 
omitting  the  particulars,  in  part. 
The  whole  is  scarcely  a  conjunc- 
tion   of    parts,   rather    a    subor- 
dination of  parts.     The  tree  is 
the  parts  conceived  as  in  a  pic- 
ture;  and  when  we  go  to  repro- 
duce  the  tree  in  our  thoughts, 
we  do  so  by  separating  part  and 
part,  and  by  holding  up  to  view 
those   varied    arborescent    inclu- 
sions which  constitute  the  com- 
pleted wonder  of    a  forest  tree. 
For   instance,    1    have    a    picture 
given  to  me  by  a  dear  friend,  a 
picture    painted     by    an    artist 
whose  specialty  is  sunsets.     He 
paints  nothing  besides.     Often, 
on  dark  days,  when  clouds  have 
hung  above  and  about  my  heart 
like  funereal  banners,  I  go  and 
stand  and  glow  with  and  in  this 


A    GRAY    CATHEDRAL 


sunset.  There  glows  the  sky,  wine-colored  and  pink  like 
the  glow  of  a  woman's  cheek  a-blushing,  clouds  dappled 
with  varied  splendors,  high  skies  tinted  as  by  a  memory  of 
setting  suns,  still  higher  skies  dimming  toward  shadows 
which  swim  up  the  eastern  heavens,  waters  of  a  stream  flashed 
with  the  wonder  of  the  glowing  sky  where  the  burning 
clouds  are  caught  and  held  as  in  prolonged  conflagration — 
a  spring  evening  bonfire  lighted  by  the  playful  hands  of 
children.  But  have  you  not  noted  that  the  one  thing  I 
could  catch  was  sunset?  Particulars  stepped  out  one  by 
one  as  I  waited  before  the  picture.  Sunset  splendor  was 
what  the  picture's  quintescence  meant;  but  the  picture 
detail  may,  yet  the  same,  have  emphasis  of  its  own.  In  the 
picture  are  cattle  roving  in  the  meadows  edging  the  stream, 
and  a  bank  lifting  above  the  waters  tilting  a  trifle,  and  a 
road  straying  among  the  trees;  beside  a  pool  a  tree  of 
solid  greenery,  as  if  it  were  green  rock,  and  on  the  lifting 
hill  a  brawn  oak  flinging  out  long,  masterful  arms,  and 
then  many  trees  crowding  along  as  to  keep  the  road  com- 
pany to  save  it  from  loneliness, — those  are  in  the  picture, 
and  much  more.  When  my  heart  is  weary  I  watch  the 
pathetic  glow  of  the  sunset.  When  I  am  weary  of  city 
streets  crowded  with  houses,  I  watch  the  trees,  cool  and 
enticing  and  oblivious  to  cities  and  their  inhabitants. 
When  my  feet  are  tired  tramping  hard  pavements,  I  rest 
them  by  looking  at  the  woodland  road  going  leisurely,  I 
know  not  where.  When  tired  of  city  sounds,  I  rest  me 
listening  to  the  long-drawn  breath  of  the  wind  through 
sunset  tree-tops.  Has  this  not  become  apparent,  how  the 
picture  must  be  seen  by  parts  to  get  its  breadth  of  meaning 
out?  So  narrow  a  landscape  as  a  painter's  canvas  can  not 
be  grasped  in  a  single  hand.  Apply  this  experience  to 
seeing  a  tree;  and  the  analogy  will  be  felicitous. 

I  have  observed  in  myself  how  I  always  watch  a  tree 
with  regard  to  some  single  thing.  Sometimes  it  is  for  a 
bird's    nest,    at  which  times  the  entire  turn  of  limbs  and 

167 


CKORY    PILLAR 


flow  of  branches  and  columnar  beauty  of 
the  trunk  are  adjustments  from  which  an 
oriole  may  swing  her  nest.  Sometimes 
the  thing  I  watch  for  is  the  poise  of  tree- 
tops,  the  carriage  of  the  tree,  so  to  say, 
with  what  variations  the  varying  species 
''  of  the  forest  flood  a  space  of  the  sky 
with  their  gifts  of  form  and  grace,  com- 
paring the  turning  of  the  branch  of  the 
bred  catalpa  with  his  lubberliness,  with 
the  delicious  delicacy  of  elm  branchlets 
and  willow  wands  or  how  the  cotton- 
wood  sends  out  branches  like  things 
grown  in  perfect  calm.  At  other  times 
I  watch  the  tracery  of  long  expanses  of 
woodland  topmost  naked  branches  as  if 
they  were  embroideries  wrought  on  the 
turquoise  garment  of  the  sky;  and  the 
sight  is  very  good  for  the  eyes.  This  is 
witching  business.  The  grace  of  tree 
branchlets  flung  out  on  the  sky  is  one 
of  God's  rarest  expressions  of  beauty. 
You  can  not  tire  of  watching;  and  they 
will  not  tire  of  you.  That  is  a  mercy. 
The  never-ending  series  of  original 
combinations,  of  cross  and  re-cross  of 
branches  larger  and  lesser,  quite  gets 
the  upper  hand  of  me.  In  particular 
is  this  a  thing  to  indulge  in  when  your 
train  is  running  at  a  breakneck,  breathless 
speed  among  branching  forests,  and  the 
sky  so  becomes  hemmed  with  the  be- 
wildering beauty  of  forest  embroidery. 
What  hilarious  hours  I  have  spent  thus 
while  my  train  leaped  fast  as  Bucephalus! 
At  other  times  my  thought  has  been  fast- 
168 


ened   to    the   spring    of    the    branches, 
watching   how  limbs   took  their  initial 
leap    out    into    the    sky,    like   a   young 
eagle's    tentative    spring, — this 
limb    leap     which    differentiates 
tribe  from  tribe  among  the  trees. 
Then  sometimes  it  is  the  corruga- 
tions  of  bark.     I    watch,  stand, 
and  wonder  at  the  different  great- 
coats, folk  of  the  forest  wear  to 
keep  the  geli'd  Winter  out.    And 
so   full   of    wonder  is   the   sight 
that  I  never  weary  of  it.     There 
is    ever    a    breathlessness    as    of 
haste    in    my    looks    as    I    scan 
seamed     barks,    and    wonder    if 
trees  grow  weary  like  the  hands 
of    men;    for  with  trees  all  gar- 
ments are  hand-made  and  hand- 
woven.      Every  tree  must  make 
his  own  clothes,   only  some   old 
mother  of  them  all  schooled  each 
tribe  in  the  appropriate  weaving 
and  wearing.     The  birch  weaves 
its  garments  so  that  they  are  like 
rare   enamel:    the   hickory   cares 
for  a  smooth  nap,  till  each  tree 
seems  dressed  in  tights;  and  the 
Norway   pine    wears    garments 
hued  like  human  flesh;  and  black- 
berries   have    clothing    like    the 
flush  of   health  on  a  boy's  cheek 
in  winter;    and    the    ash    wears 
Scotch  tweeds,  rough  but  comely; 
and    the    wild    cherry    has    gar- 
ments like   some   royal   cavalier, 


'        F   .  "I      *v_'   '  i        -  ' 

mm 


9 


m    \h 


m 
.# 


THE    COTTONWOOD    PILLAR 


only  faded  a  little  from  long  wear, — sometimes  this  gar- 
menting of  the  trees  I  give  heed  to. 

But  now,  my  look  is  at  the  pillared  majesty  of  them,  to 
conceive  each  tree  as  if  it  were  a  pillar  hewn  to  hold  a 
temple  up.  I  am  glad  to  have  hit  upon  this  another 
method  of  interpreting  trees  to  myself;  for  in  it  is  much 
of  joy  and  elucidation.  The  tree's  royalty  has  become 
more  apparent,  and  his  individuality  more  pronounced.  If 
a  lens  could  only  give  the  rich  colorings  of  those  pillars 
which  are  here  attempted  to  be  interpreted,  I  would  be 
glad.  But  that  remains  for  the  eye  which  hunts  these 
tree  pillars  out  as  they  stand,  stately  and  grand,  in  the  woods 
where  their  life  is  lived.  Eyes  are  the  only  competent 
artists,  after  all.  They  can  see  all:  tint,  corrugation,  huge- 
ness, sense  of  infinite  strength,  unsullied  repose,  stability, — 
eyes  can  catch  all  these.  Tree  pillars  are  not  to  be  seen  in  a 
book,  but  in  a  forest;  only  this  is  to  be  remembered,  that 
something  of  gain  comes  in  carrying  a  pillar  away  from  its 
forest  surroundings,  and  setting  it  up  as  a  column  of 
remembrance  far  from  its  fellows.  In  this  created  solitude 
we  watch  it  with  an  intimacy  of  regard  we  had  not  given 
it  hitherto.  Would  you  care  to  watch  pillars  set  up,  which, 
had  they  stood  in  a  temple  portico,  had  enraptured  the 
world  of  such  as  love  things  majestical? 

Stately  and  strong  as  are  pillars  I  have  seen  in  Gothic 
cathedrals,  pillars  unafraid  of  the  roof-weight  leaning  on 
them,  and  sinewy  to  bear  their  burden  as  never  knowing 
there  was  a  burden  to  be  borne,  I  never  have  seen  those 
Gothic  pillars  of  gray  cathedral  stone  half  so  imposing  as 
tree  pillars.  Or  what  caryatid,  holding  up  some  Grecian 
frieze,  could  be  named  in  beauty  with  this  slender  and 
engaging  column  of  the  coffee-bean  tree?  That  ragged 
trunk  solid  as  stone,  and  at  some  turns  of  invective-look- 
ing bark,  red  as  a  burning  coal,  garments  in  nothing  set 
loose  like  those  of  the  shagbark  but  ribbed  as  if  the  tree 
were  a  crusader  clad  in  coat  of  mail, — that  trunk,  panoplied 

170 


THE  PINE  PILLAR 


against  all  battle  stress,  would  make  a 
pilaster  to  dream  of  with  eyes  shut  on 
dusky  summer  evenings.  For  airy 
grace  and  manly  strength  in  fine  and 
inspiring  combination,  artists  would 
go  very  far  to  find  the  half  equal  of 
this  pillar  taken  from  the  ordinary 
woods,  and  yet  a  thing  of  beauty  of 
which  hardly  any  one  this  writer  has 
ever  known  has  had  any  knowledge  of 
at  all.  But  had  some  long-fled  builder 
left  in  that  woods  a  carven  column, 
tall  and  slim  as  a  sylph  or  a  woman, 
people  would  have  pilgrimed  to  ob- 
serve it.  And  to  recall  how,  on  a  day 
of  waking  spring,  when  earth-smells 
were  everywhere,  and  the  glad  red- 
bird  called  in  notes  eager  and  insistent 
and  full  of  all  the  gladsome  hope  of 
the  morning  of  the  year,  and  grasses 
were  shooting  up  tender  spears  of 
glistening  green  beside  the  winding 
water,  and  the  sky  was  dim  as  beckon- 
ing the  rain,  and  foliage  was  trying  to 
break  through  the  harsh  impediment 
of  bark  because  by  some  unknown  pre- 
science it  knew  the  gentle  Spring  was 
come,  our  friend,  the  artist,  came,  and 
took  this  picture  when  we  felt  we  heard 
the  life-saps  flowing  through  the  water- 
courses of  the  trees,  and  felt  sure  we 
heard  the  dryads  calling  each  to  the 
other,  "Spring!  Spring!"  And  this 
tree,  slate-gray  black  with  sudden 
breaking  out  of  flame  as  of  hidden  fire 
at    the    heart    of    the   trunk,  stood    a 

173 


asm 


■n 


Mi  l     i  I       -^-v**  «w 

wmm 


ifel 

A    BLACK  OAK   PILLAR 


pillar  fit  to  have  held  up  the  gateway 
through  which  Spring  might  enter  this 
woodland  world. 

Or  this  black  oak  pillar,  how  bleak, 
black,  resistful,  not  to  say  resentful,  it 
Lithe  as  an  Indian  runner  stripped 
to  the  skin,  leaping  skyward  as  if  to  urge 
the  sky-clouds  to  lean  their  weight  of 
shadows  and  of  rain  on  its  waiting  strength, 
it  stands  as  if  it  neither  asked  nor  needed 
help  in  any  task  it  undertook.  Self-suffi- 
cient this  black  column  is;  and  was  there 
ever  hewn  from  black  basalt  cliff  a  more 
imposing  obelisk?  Such  daring  deeds  Na- 
ture accomplishes,  nor  even  thinks  the 
effort  an  achievement. 

This    red-oak    trunk    might    have    been 
the   sole    pillar    on   which    a    massive    roof 
leaned    its    full    weight    nor    guessed    the 
weight    worth    thinking    of.      Such    brawn 
makes  light  of  burdens.     This  red-oak 
stood  on  a  hillside  overlooking  a  great 
American  river;  and  the  people  of  the 
vicinity  had  no  appreciation  that  at  a 
stone's-cast  of  their  doors  was  a  thing 
worth    taking    voyages    to    see.      My 
friend  and  I  came  far  to  get  our  vision 
and  our  picture,  but  came  not  too  far. 
So    soon    as  we    set   eyes    on   this 
brave  pillar  from  the  winter  woods 
we  felt  a  glow  of  gladness  which 
made  the  shivery  win- 
ter wind   grow  warm  ; 
and  we  laughed  aloud 
as    if   we    had    discov- 
ered  a  pillar  standing 
"•   amidst     the     ruins    of 


some  desolated  temple,  and  called  each  to  the  other, 
"Eureka!" 

I  have  seen  tulip  pillars,  straight  as  a  line  swung  from 
the  sun,  leap  seventy-five  feet  with  never  a  branch  flung 
out  like  an  arm  stretched  to  keep  one  from  falling— a 
glad,  unassisted  leap  skyward.  What  temple  would  not 
be  elate  if  such  a  column  held  its  roof?  This  tree  appeals 
to  me  as  one  of  the  noblest  pillars  of  the  wood;  and  if  a 
temple  like  the  Parthenon  could  be  erected  in  which  these 
tulip  pillars  would  be  used  in  long  corridors  of  columns 
seventy-five  to  one  hundred  feet  in  altitude  to  hold  on 
high  a  roof  of  snowy  marble,  could  there  be  a  nobler 
edifice?  But  when  Winter  pitches  his  glorious  camp,  and 
snows  are  everywhere,  and  every  tree  leans  under  its  cross 
of  snow,  what  hinders  a  forest  of  tulip-trees  from  being 
such  a  stately  Parthenon  as  I  have  conceived?  This  is 
Nature's  prowess,  that  she  executes  what  fancy  pictures 
as  dreams.  What  mightier  than  any  Parthenon  have  mine 
own  eyes  beheld  at  winter  amongst  the  tulip-trees? 

Or  if  these  black,  corrugated  trunks  appeared  less  apt 
than  marble  to  build  temples  of,  then  from  forest  pillars 
build  a  Parthenon  of  snow-white  marble,  using  sycamores 
for  columns.  Snows  of  mountain  crest  are  not  more  glis- 
tering white  than  these ;  Pentelic  marbles  are  not  more 
gloriously  beautiful.  The  columnar  leap  of  marble  quar- 
ried from  the  earth-mold  with  the  miracle  of  soundless 
quarrying  until  along  the  skeleton  woodland  a  hundred 
columns  lift  them,  straight  as  the  direction  of  falling  light 
and  white  as  light  filtered  free  from  earth  dust, — than  this, 
not  since  the  making  of  the  world  has  temple  been  so 
lordly  and  sublime.  Or  if  your  imagination  take  the  Greek 
turn  and  you  prefer  to  paint  your  Parthenon  pillars,  let  the 
sycamore  be  suffused  with  gentle  emerald  such  as  is  accus- 
tomed to  tint  it  when  saps  begin  their  journey  from  rootlet 
to  topmost  thrust  of  twig  tufted  with  a  bulging  bud,  and 
when  buds  softly  flutter   into   leaf,  young,   vivid    in  their 

175 


flush  of  green;  and  these  trees  uphold  a  temple  roofed  with 
emerald  quarried  from  God's  hidden  mines,  only,  instead 
of  the  trivial  emerald  worn  for  a  green  petal  in  a  woman's 

ring,  this  emerald  is  in  great 
slabs  like  onyx  fetched  from 
far;  and  when  the  suffused 
and  gentle  green  of  sycamore 
pillars  upholds  a  roof  of 
springtime  early  leafage,  all 
painted  Parthenons  have 
found  their  queen,  and  must 
bow  down  to  do  homage. 

Or  if  your  architectural 
preference  lean  toward  the 
colossal,  and  you  wish  build- 
ers to  erect  a  Luxor  or  Karnak 
temple,  then  choose  the  wal- 
nut trunk  for  making  of  your 
pillars.  Look  at  this  huge- 
girthed  trunk  in  the  picture 
until  you  feel  its  mass,  and 
answer  whether  any  builder, 
however  finical  as  to  material 
for  the  colossal,  could  ask  to 
find  a  quarry  where  lordlier 
pillars  were  to  be  hewn.  This 
walnut  campanile  has  drunk 
in  the  dusks  and  dawns  and 
starlights  and  hot  noons  for  a 
full  century,  and  stands  im- 
posing as  a  reminiscence  of 
those  titanic  builders  who  con- 
trived those  massive  grandeurs 
of  Old  Luxor's  colonnades. 

And  sometimes,  when  the 
ax  has  made  mad  havoc  among 

176 


SYCAMORE    PILLAR 


the  sycamores,  I  have  seen  acres  littered 
with  marble  pillars,  as  if  some  desolating 
tempest  had  swept  across  the  world  or 
some  volcanic  upheaval  had  tossed  a 
temple  into  ruins  and  flung  broken 
columns  in  wild  heterogeneity  across 
that  landscape  formerly  rendered  sig- 
nificant by  an  imposing  temple  watching 
for  the  coming  of  the  dawn  ;  but  roya 
wreckage,  and  what  a  fateful  catas- 
trophe! Though  never  ruined  temples 
with  their  disheveled  beauty  were  so 
pathetic  and  wonderful  as  this  syca- 
more forest  wounded  to  its  death!  In 
death  or  life  these  tree  pillars  are  so 
soaked  with  poetry  and  eloquence  and 
sublimity. 

Or    if    another    preference    chose 
another  temple  architect,  then  he  might 
quarry  pillars  of  Norway  pine,  tall,  in- 
decrepit,  erect  as  brawny  soldiers,  col- 
ored   with    a    glowing  warmth    like    to 
human  flesh,  stately,  passing  noble,  and 
roofed  with  the   black   greens   of    pine 
foliage  as  if  night  were  dawning  on  the 
tree-tops  and  this  roof  were  an  orches- 
tra which  played  subdued  and  witching 
music.    Than  such,  no  worshiper  might 
wish  other  singing  at  his  hour  of  prayer. 
What  thoughts    have  swept  across  my 
heart  when  I  have  in  solitariness 
worshiped  in  the  solemn  Gothic 
cathedral  of  the  pines,  and  heard 
this    divine    orchestral    melody^ 
melt   from  the  sky!     Earth  has., 
no  more  impressive  edifice  nor 

12  J77 


A  WALNUT   PILLAR 


THE   SHAGBARK    PILLAR 


more  expressive  service;  for  it 
plunges  the  soul  into  the  very  surf 
of  prayer. 

And  if  a  house  were  to  be  built 
for  Anger  to  dwell  in,  what  could 
be  quarried  from  the  hills  so  express- 
ive or  just,  so  without  contrast  but 
so  replete  with  likeness  of  spirit  and 
its  expression,  as  the  shagbark? 
With  a  house  built  of  such  mate- 
rials, Anger  might  rave  as  the  rude 
Winter  wind  to  find  his  house  as 
angry  as  himself.  This  shagbark 
pillar  was  taken  in  his  surly  strength 
when  behind  and  beside  it  Spring- 
time wood,  leaf,  and  flower  swung 
perfume  censer  to  every  wind  that 
blew;  when  blue-birds  called  in 
voice  swooning  with  tenderness* 
"ber-mu-da,  ber-mu-da;"  when 
robins  fluted  and  the  dove  moaned, 
while  all  the  earth  beside  sang,  drunk 
with  gladness,  and  when  the  land- 
scape was  bathed  in  sunlight  as  in  a 
sea,  and  leaves  laughed  out  loud  in 
merry-making;  when  the  buds  of 
the  shagbark  had  swollen  in  growth 
of  Spring  till  they  flowered  out  into 
a  bud,  red  as  a  garnet  and  as  beau- 
tiful, and  then  hasted  from  bud  to 
leaf: — but  for  all  this  gladness  and 
beauty  of  the  year,  for  all  the  swing- 
ing of  the  trees  so  that  this  picture 
has  a  Corot  effect,  the  shagbark  re- 
fuses to  be  glad  and  bears  on  high 
its  tossing  crest  of  laughing  and 
178 


THE  MAPLE  PILLAR 


shining  leaves,  but  never  mingles  in  song  or  laughter.  Be- 
yond a  doubt,  this  was  meant  for  a  pillar  in  Anger's  house. 

And  should  some  king  ask  a  house  new  in  design  and 
rare,  could  he  mistake  in  choosing  a  maple  for  making  his 
unique  habitation?  I  call  on  all  who  cast  eyes  on  this  pil- 
lar branched  like  deer-antlers,  to  witness  that  who  erected 
a  palace  out  of  these  would  have  a  habitation  gorgeous 
even  for  a  king.  What  palace  of  Versailles  or  Holyrood 
or  Hohenzollern's  house,  or  palace  of  De  Medici,  but 
would  appear  inelegant  compared  with  a  house  whose  roof 
was  propped  by  these  branched  columns  of  the  maple-tree? 

And  were  I  building  to  Silence  a  fane  whose  gentle 
colors  should  rest  the  eyes  yet  stimulate  the  thought,  I 
would  use  elm  pillars.  This  one  seen  in  the  picture  would 
dignify  any  temple  ever  built.  In  color  almost  gray;  for 
the  rains  have  bleached  it.  Strength  is  here,  no  wind  cares 
to  attempt  to  twist  and  no  rage  of  tempest  can  uproot.  It 
lifts  itself  proudly,  as  it  has  good  right  to  do.  We  took 
the  picture  when  the  rain  was  falling  persistently.  Spring 
was  not  yet  at  bloom,  but  Spring  odors  were  set  afloat  by 
the  falling  rain,  and  a  body  found  himself  looking  for  dog- 
tooth violets  as  he  walked  along,  and  could  not  help  it; 
and  the  air  was  genial  and  the  sky  was  the  color  of  wood- 
ashes,  and  sycamores  were  turning  from  white  to  the  tint 
of  green  tourmaline  in  some  places  and  in  others  to  light 
chrysoprase,  and  clouds  began  to  spray  the  forests  in  fun, 
and  then  to  settle  down  to  the  honest  business  of  raining. 
And  the  elm-trunk  stood  tall  and  commanding,  as  careless 
whether  Winter  or  Spring  were  at  his  doorstep.  His  might 
was  in  himself.  And  my  friend,  the  artist,  would  not  let 
the  drip  of  rain  prevent  this  erect  bole  from  marching  from 
his  woodland  to  this  book.  I  hear  the  patter  of  the  rain, 
and  feel  it  now,  and  enjoy  it  now  as  then,  and  feel  the  rigid 
manliness  of  the  elm  pillar  as  it  stood  great  in  bulk  and 
sense  of  strength  and  unobservant  of  rain  or  artist  or  me. 
This  pillar  is  fitted  to  be  built  into  the  temple  of  Silence, 

1S1 


P  where  are  folded  hands,  and  slow- 
ing heart-beat,  and  surcease  of 
care,  and  the 

Benediction  that  follows  after  prayer." 

Sometimes,  when  forests  have 
been  invaded  of  the  woodsmen,  I 
have  gone  like  a  chief  mourner. 
|  My  commercial  instinct  is  sadly- 
lacking.  I  know  the  worth  of 
slain  woods,  but  love  not  to  con- 
sider it.  We  need  them;  but 
forests  need  them  too.  I  would 
not  be  party  to  cutting  down  a 
living  oak  or  elm  or  sycamore  or 
walnut.  It  may  be  necessary;  but 
I  will  crave  the  poetry  of  watch- 
ing the  living  trunk  crowd  up 
skyward,  and  toss  its  cloud  of 
shadow,  grown  up  neighborly  to 
the  clouds  of  white  in  which  the 
sky  indulges.  But  to  mark  a 
broad  hollow  in  the  woods  sown 
to  prostrate  walnut  and  elm  trunks 
is  to  seem  to  see  the  ruin  of  some 
stately  fane  smitten  with  whirl- 
wind and  with  fire,  the  pillars 
burnt  black  or  ash-hued  by  the 
ravaging  flames.  There  they  lie 
prone,  noble  in  death  as  in  life; 
and  I  have  walked  with  pathetic 
spirit  among  the  ruins  of  St. 
Cloud,  which  used  to  be  an  em- 
peror's palace  where  marriage 
rang  golden  bells  and  a  prince 
imperial  was  born.     Battle-fire  has 


blackened  and  bleakened  the  walls, 
and  hostile  cannon  have  hammered 
statue  from  pedestal,  and  have  left 
splinters    of    ravage    tossed    every- 
where;  and  the  signs  of  desolation 
are  as  pitiful  as  the  heart  of  sorrow 
with  tearful  face.     All  this  have  I 
watched;  and  the  smutch  and  smell 
of  smoke  was  on  the  dilapidation. 
So  these   black,  prone  pilasters  of 
elm  and  walnut  seem  fire-smutched, 
only  where  on   St.   Cloud   was  the 
smell    of    smoke,    on    these    fallen 
nobilities  is  the  odor  of  forgotten 
summers.    I  could  watch  and  weep. 
And  when  a  temple  is  builded 
to    Wonder,    then    the    cathedral- 
builder    is    to    use    ivy    pillars.      A 
million    of    these   slender,    emerald 
gracefulnesses    should    make    wide 
circle  to  hold  up  the  canopy  of  the 
sapphire    sky — green    holding    up 
the  blue.     Could  you  dream  that  a 
dome  expansive  enough  to  hold  all 
the  blinking  stars  of  gentle  light,  a 
dome  of  Oriental  amethyst,   could 
be  spanned  and  set  upon  a  million 
pilasters   of  chrysoprase,   the   ame- 
thyst  dappled  with   the   fair  white 
of  clouds   and  the  chrysoprase  pi- 
lasters   carven    to    ivy    tendril    and 
leaf,  would  not  that  be  architecture 
in    which    the    splendor    of    gem 
should    be  touched    into   bewilder- 
ment   by    the    presence    of    the 
infinite? 

183 


A    WHITE    OAK    PILLAR 


And  the  white-oak  pillar!  There  it  towers  like  a 
sea-cliff  for  majesty.  Not  any  Roman  patrician's  palace 
was  so  wrought  into  cunning  workmanship  of  tessellated 
pavement  and  wall  and  ceiling  as  this  oak  trunk.  See  how 
the  patines  lure  your  fingers  to  caress  them.  Honestly,  I 
can  hardly  keep  my  fingers  off  this  picture.  I  can  fairly 
feel  the  roughness  of  the  tree  as  it  stands  on  my  farm 
with  its  unsuspected  wonder  of  loveliness.  The  eyes  are 
satisfied  as  they  trace  these  lines  of  cunning  workmanship. 
Could  might  be  wedded  to  more  satisfying  beauty?  Could 
any  artist  contrive  strength  so  beautified  with  song? 
There  it  stands  on  the  hill  ascent,  a  fear  to  the  winds,  a 
wonder  to  the  woods,  a  silence  to  itself,  a  praise  to  God; 
a  tree  pillar  on  which,  as  we  look,  we  feel  the  vault  of  the 
expanded  heavens  could  lean  and  never  discomfit  the  self- 
reliant  column  grown  to  the  music  of  lonely  Winter  storms 
and  the  cadences  of  Summer  winds  which  slipped  across 
the  night-world,  quiet  of  foot  as  passing  clouds, — so  grown, 
so  menaced,  so  madrigaled,  but  grown  stern,  erect,  vast- 
thewed,  beautiful,  and  eager  for  the  anguish  of  holding 
up  the  sky. 


A    REDWOOD    PILLAR 


THE  SUMMER  WIND 


ANSWERING    TO    THE    SUMMER    WIND 


A  DECEMBER  SPRING 


A    SPRING    IN"    JUNE 


HEARKENING   TO   THE    SUNLIGHT 


fe> 


A  DECEMBER  SPRING 


fJtote 


THE    BLUEJAY 


This  Kansas  weather  trips  up  even 
the  elect.     Its  whimsies  are  delicious. 
You  never  know  what  a  day  will  bring 
forth;    and  sufficient  unto   the  day  is 
the  climate  thereof.     Some,  even  many, 
berate    this    facility    in    adjusting    the 
thermometer,    talking    in    loud    tones 
about    "horrible    changeableness." 
Now,  this  accusation  could  be  brought 
against    women    with    equal    force, 
though,  in  a  spirit  of  chivalry,  I  would 
certainly  hope  no  man  would  be  guilty  of  the  impropriety 
of  referring  to  woman's  facile  mood   as  "horribly  change- 
able.       That  would  be  gross.     Let  us  not  believe  it  of  any 
man.     Woman's  many-moodedness  is  among  her  charms  — 
one  without  which  she  would  be  appreciably  poorer  in  that 
generous   wealth   of  fascination    of   which    she  is   mistress. 
We  men  love  variableness  in  her;  and  why  should  we  laud 
in  women  what  we  berate  in  weather?     This  is  illogicality, 
the  thing  men  accuse  this   Kansas  weather  of.     Let  us  be 
consistent,  seeing  it  is  so  easy. 

The  surprises  of  the  weather  enamor  me.  And  when 
Winter  has  set  his  foot  on  our  road  sturdily  walking  like 
some  unimaginative  pedestrian  and  when  he  shakes  snow- 
flakes  from  his  mantle  and  puffs  icy  winds  into  the  face 
of  human  kind  and  makes  the  birds  seek  the  sheltering 
woodlands,  then  to  have  him,  for  all  his  bluster,  pushed 
off  the  path  and    Spring   come   smiling   along   as   hunting 

195 


WHEN   MAY 

IS  HERE 


for  violets— honestly,  this  tickles  my  funny-bone.  I  am, 
to  tell  the  truth  plainly,  elated.  Winter  jostled  out  of  his 
own  highway  by  a  bit  of  a  lass  like  violet-hunting  Spring! 
Ave,  as  says  our  Scotch  friend,  that  is 
bonnie. 

The  sky  is  blue,  a  trifle  pale  as 
becometh  a  December  sky.     The 
cold    has    driven    the    blue   blush 
out   of    the    cheek    till    the    wide 
canopy  is  a  blue  as  if  affrighted. 
As  a  body  looks,  the  blue  seems 
about  to  thrust  clouds  out  into 
the  open.     But  this  is  a  make- 
believe  of  the  December  atmos- 
phere.    Not  a  cloud  is  intended. 
This  is  not  cloud  but  pallor  we 
perceive.     Fear  not  that  Winter 
is  stealing  back  to  snub   us  with 
his  surliness  and  occupy  this  road 
and    drive    us    shivering,    like    the 
scant  foliage,  back  into  the  shelter 
of  the  house.    It  is  temporary  Spring. 
Off  with  your  overcoat.     Insult  not  the 
season.      Throw    your    gloves    into    the 
aundry-bag.     We  do  not  wear  gloves  on 
Spring    days,   do   we?     Come,    be    mannerly; 
Spring   is    here.     I    know  ice   is  on   the   stream. 
That  is  a  fact  past  denying;    but  the  hobo  by  the 
creek  reading  his  daily  paper,  turning  his  soles  to 
the  fire  which  burns   cheerily,   exuding    fragrance, 
and   sending   up    its    mobile   cloud   of   blue   wood- 
-the  hobo  falls  asleep  with  his  head  leaning  on  his 
in  the   sun 


smoke, 


hands— fast   asleep   in  the   sun.      He    knows    it    is   Spring; 
and  the  languor  of  the  season  has  overcome  him. 

How  warm  the  sunlight  is!     The  air  is  crisp,  like  early 
evening  in  the  early  Spring— crisp,  but  delicious.      If  I  do 

196 


not  mind,  I  will  be  hunting  my  fishing-pole  in  a  minute; 
but  1  must  not.     How  unseemly  would  be  the  sight  of  a 
sane  man  going  fishing  in  the  presence  of  Christmas.     No- 
I    must    restrain    myself.      Whatever   the    vagaries    of   the 
weather,  I  must  not  myself  become  a  vagary.     I  must  not 
invade  the  sanctities  of  the  almanac.     The  almanac  says  that 
for  about  a  week  now  we  are  having  blizzards  and  much 
snow.     However  inaccurate  this  talk  of  the  almanac  is,  I 
must   not   let  on.     No;   no   fish-pole.     This  is  December, 
neanng  Christmas,  although  it  is  Spring.     But  more  things 
than  I  are  getting  mixed  by  this  invasion  of  spring.     The 
birds  are  topsy-turvy;   and  they  think  themselves  so  smart 
as  that  they  never  consult  Ayers's  Almanac  about  seasons 
or  weather.     They  are  egotists,  these   birds.     They  need 
not    deny    it.     They    can    not.      And    so    these    important 
little  folks  are  acting  silly  this  day.     A  crowd  of  sparrows 
are  building  a  nest!      I  shrink  from  recording  this  bit  of 
bird  insanity;   but  they  have  snubbed  me  so  often  that  I, 
with  becoming  Christian  spirit,  will  take  this  opportunity 
of  snubbing  them.     I  judge  these  sparrows  are  communists, 
leastwise  a  company  of  birds,  and  not  the  usual  conjugal 
two,  but  a  company  are  busy  building,  some  looking  on, 
some   inspecting  with   critical   eyes,    some   in   a   droll  way 
saying,  The  job  you  are  doing  is  very  well  for  you,  but—; 
others  bringing  long  straws,  and  others  still,  surly  grasses, 
and  putting  them  into  place  with  desperate  energy,  as  if 
they  were  to  pay  a  forfeit  if  this  nest  were  not  completed 
by  noon.     Aye,  laddies,  for  all  your  self-conceit,  your  new 


THE    SENTINELS    OF    THE    STREAM 


house  will  be  filled  with  snow  from  cellar  to  garret  before 
very  long;  and  then  will  you  read  the  almanac,  I  wonder? 
Really  I  am  coming  to  think  that  birds  are  not  so  much 
smarter  than  the  rest  of  mankind,  notwithstanding  all  their 
sagacious  airs.  An  English  sparrow  deluded  by  the  seduc- 
tions of  Kansas  weather!  Plainly  Kansas  weather  is  ahead. 
But  how  the  sunlight  streams,  and  with  what  generous 
flame  it  warms  the  shocks  of  corn  and  the  dull  precision  of 
the  standing  corn  and  the  brown  meadows  where  the 
meadow-larks  built  their  nest  and  tossed  their  limpid  music 
across  the  waving  green  as  in  a  jest  of  song!  I  miss  my 
guess  if  this  thing  would  not  delude  the  larks,  an  they 
were  here.  But  they  are  gone;  not  a  sprig  of  any  one  of 
them  walking  across  the  prairies  they  love;  not  a  yellow- 
breast  belted  tight  across  a  warm  heart.  Gone?  Gone! 
And  truly  it  is  not  Spring.  Why  do  not  the  sparrows  take 
note  that  the  larks  are  not  here,  as  they  surely  would  be  if 
Spring  had  returned  for  keeps?  Wheatfields  are  of  a  surly 
blush  betwixt  death  and  greenery  as  waking  from  a  sullen 
sleep;  crows  gad  about  the  sky  as  thinking  Spring  is  here, 
or  sit  in  the  white  limbs  of  the  cottonwood  in  the  neighbor- 
hood as  if  to  warm  their  feet  by  that  mellow  sunlight.  I 
warm  my  hands,  stretching  them  out  against  the  sun.  How 
beyond  praise  this  springtime  weather  is!  Winter,  was  it 
months  ago  or  years!  I  will  not  compute,  satisfied  that 
Spring  has  come  and  the  sun  ,  J  f  is  warm  and  the  land- 
scape   laughs    in    a    wealth       jjtf*s$*b'   of  light  ana"  joy- 


A    WINTER    TEN: 


In  a  bend  of  the  stream  the  nut-hatches  are  holding  a 

festival.      To    me    (lying    here    on    the    flat    of    my    back, 

stretched    as   far   as   an  elongated    providence  allows  me),' 

looking  up  through  the  spread  of  branches  where  they  are 

congregated,   it 

looks    as    if    they 

were    holding    a 

family     reunion. 

The    whole    tribe 

seems  to  be   bent 

on  having  a  jolly 

talk    all    at    once. 

Tittering  a  good 

deal  I  allow,  but  at 

family  gatherings 

this  is  appropri- 
ate. Queer  little- 
voices    they   have, 

birds   talking   in 

whispers  as  if  they 

were    all    lovers. 

Spring  is  it,  my 
lads  and  lassies? 
You     think     so, 

talking  quickly 
along  the  shaggy  arms  of  the  elm  you  are  housed  in,  pay- 
ing no  heed  to  me:  though  really  why  should  you?  I  am 
behaving;  and  people  do  not  give  much  attention  to  those 
who  behave.  It  is  when  you  misbehave  that  you  are  noticed. 
And  I,  lying  still,  behaving,  noting  the  quiddities  of  these 
feathered  families  engaged  in  their  colloquies  like  a  pack 
of  lovers,— I  am  glad  that  Spring  brought  you  to  this  ingle- 
nook  of  the  woods;  for  the  high  bank  builds  its  wall  against 
the  unneighborly  North;  and  the  East  bank  is  high  and 
shuts  out  obtrusive  East  winds  if  they  were  ill-mannered 
enough  to  blow;  and  the  skies  of  the  South  build  a  tent  so 

199 


WHERE   I  WATCHED  TH 


E  GATHERING  STORM 


that  the  woods  and  banks  shut  the  whole  world  off,  save 
from  the  wide  sky  with  its  complacent  sun;  and  the  South 
opens  to  the  South  where  the  swallows  toss  their  shadows 
across  the  streams  and  fringing  meadows, — the  South, 
where  icebergs  fling  their  last  white  pinnacle  into  the 
azure  ocean,  the  land  where  the  sun  kisses  the  cheeks 
of  even  the  women  folks  to  a  brown  like  a  hickory- 


jg  wnen 
4&k  a/. i 

1 


I 


^    k  nut"      Open    to    tne    South!      And    the    sun   pays 

strict  attention  to  warming  up  this  recess  of  the 

,.'  woods  and  in  making  a  bird's  holiday  a  thing 

to  be  glad  over.    And  the  south  wind  streams 

up  the  ravine  and  has  a  breath  of  Summer 

in  it.     Birdies,  sing  out  loud,  can't  you? 

Spring  is  here. 

And  the  farmer  thinks  it  is  Spring,  I 
reckon;   for  he  has  taken  his  overshoes 
the  redbiru  off.     This   hardy  man,   the   farmer,  has 

become  sorely  effeminate.  He  husks 
corn  with  mittens  on,  he  plows  with  an  umbrella  over  him, 
he  wears  overshoes  in  Winter  with  a  fidelity  which  puts  to 
shame  my  lazy  disinclination  to  such  a  belonging  of  aristoc- 
racy. But  to-day  he  has  not  his  overshoes  buckled  tight 
above  his  instep,  nor  has  he  on  his  rubber  boots.  It  is 
Spring!  Plainly  and  incontrovertibly,  this  is  Spring.  The 
farmer  has  shed  his  overshoes.     Spring  is  here. 

Sycamores  sprawl  out  their  long,  lean  arms  to  catch 
every  patch  of  the  light  falling  upon  them;  and  the  white- 
oaks,  with  their  brown  leaves  kept  as  mementos,  glow  with 
a  dull  light  as  of  lamps  seen  through  brown  curtains;  and 
the  cattle  grow  waggish,  and  dare  each  other  to  bunt  a 
spell;  and  the  hens  are  talking  blithely  with  that  heartening 
"ca,  ca,  ca,  ca,"  which  seems  to  be  a  hen's  due-bill  to  the 
effect  that  eggs  are  about  to  be  laid;  and  the  roosters  flap 
their  wings  and  crow  and  look  big,  and  then,  with  com- 
mendable bluster,  invite  the  women  to  come  and  eat  some 
tidbit  they  have  found,  which  essaying  to  do,  they  rush  to 

200 


them,  only  to  find  the  men  chickens  eating  it  hungrily. 
There  still  remains  a  good  deal  of  human  nature  in  chick- 
ens, specially  a  good  deal  of  man  nature  in  rooster  chick- 
ens. Education  has  not  yet  eliminated  it.  Is  there  ice  on 
the  stream?  Scarcely.  It  is  Spring.  Dog-tooth  violets 
are  doubtless  sneaking  around  somewhere  to  surprise  me 
with  that  fine  delight  I  always  experience  when  I  see  the 
first  dog-tooth.  If  only  Herrick  were  here  to  puff  out 
his   cheeks    and    talk  a  little  poetry  from  the  gladness  of 


THE    LONELY    ROAD 


his  heart!     Hail,  gentle  Spring!     Did  I  hear  a  cuckoo  call, 
"cuck-oo-oo,  cuck-oo;"  and  was  that  a  robin's  trill? 

But  what's  up?  The  sunlight  disappears  as  by  some 
evil  magic.  I  see  no  cloud  nor  any  hint  of  cloud.  All 
the  South  is  open,  spacious,  inviting.  What  ails  the  sun? 
And  I  flounder  off  my  back,  struggle  to  a  vertical  position, 
pull  the  wrinkles  out  of  my  trousers  (I  must  be  elegant 
whatever  happens),  and  look  around.  Upon  my  word, 
the  entire  North  is  packed  with  clouds  gray  and  shivery 


201 


*£*%& 


3 


■* 


4 


/ 


to   look   upon.     They  are   backing  up.     This  is 

I    not    fair.     We   can    not    hope    to    have    settled 

weather  if  clouds  act  like  this.     To  back  in  like 

a    train    into    a    station,    what     an    underhanded 

trick   that   is!     But  sunlight  has  vanished.     The 

birds  are  huddling  together.     The  sparrows  have 

subsided    in  their  house-building,   and    have  ap- 

rently  adjourned  sine  die;  and  the  gray  clouds  positively 

buck  up   till  the   sky   has   not   one  blue,  cheery   corner — all 

gray  clouds.      And   the   South  wind   suddenly  stops  with   a 

It,  and  a  burly  North  wind  shoves  across  its  path,  and  the 

air  becomes  chill  and   damp,  and   a  North  wind  begins  to 

complain  with  its  pitiful  whine,  and  a  violent  gust  of  wind 

hases  the  quiet  leaves  out  of  the  wood  and  up  into  the  prai- 

ie;  and  then  a  gale  lifts  voice  and  wings,  and  trumpets  its 

way  across  the  sky,  and  snow  begins  to  drift  through  the 

gray  heavens;   and  then  the  air  is   blind  with  innumerable 

snowflakes.     Winter  is  come.     And   I   am  glad   that  I  did 

not  in  this  Springtime  take  off  my  shoes  to  go  barefoot. 

As  now  appears,   that  would  have  been  premature.     And 

I  wait  a  little,  it  takes  not  long,  to  see  the  new  sparrow's 

nest  filled  with  hurrying  snowflakes;  and  the  builders  have 

scudded  off  from  the  presence  of  snow  and  wind.     They 

will   not   fight   the   wind.      One   thing   they  will   not   pick    a 

quarrel  with — one  thing.     And  I  am  snowy  as  Winter  and 

shivering  a  little,  if  the  truth  be  spoken,   and   think  about 

re  in  the    grate    and    the    books   on   my   study  table. 

is  over.     Upon  my  word,   this    Kansas   weather   is 


I      f     i         'is   Winter 


versatile.       I 


should 
What 


have 
made 


consulted 
me  forget 


the    almanac. 


kg 


$ 


J 


THE  MOUNTAINS 


A    MOUNTAIN    SHEEP 


V 


mm 


THE  MOUNTAINS 


PURPLE    PEAKS    REMOTE 

MOUNTAIN  is  a  descriptive  word,  meaning  to  climb. 
Mountains  are  the  climbers  toward  the  dawn.  They  are 
this  solid  world's  most  emphatic  response  to  the  sky  and 
stars.  Slight  is  the  wonder,  then,  that  they  are  accounted 
sublime.  The  world's  upclambering  to  outtop  itself  and 
gain  admission  to  the  spaces  infinite  can  have  but  one 
result  upon  the  soul,  to  lift  it,  as  on  the  mountain's  brawny 
shoulders,  nigh  to  heaven.  He  who  writes  is  not  so  wit- 
less as  to  suppose  that  mountains  will  make  men  good,  or 
erase  the  littleness  from  little  souls.  God  can  not  do  such 
high  things  for  such  as  will  not  let  Him;  but  the  native 
tendency  of  mountains  strenuous  for  the  far  blue  heavens 
is  to  shake  littleness  and  meanness  from  the  life,  and  bid 
it  have  the  larger  mood,  and  live  a  nearer  neighbor  to  the 
morning. 

For  this  reason  humanity  has  always  felt  the  mountains. 
Alp  and  Apennine,  Taurus  and  Hermon,  Carmel  and  Ida, 
have  stepped  into  the  midst  of  men  like  a  fellow-man,  only 
one  of  giant  stature  and  severe  repose  and  manifest  des- 
tiny.     They    have    spelled    out    strange    meanings    in    the 

207 


thinking  of  the  world.  Mount  Parnassus  was  where  the 
poets  dwelt;  and  Hymettus  was  honey-breathed  and  rilled 
with  drone  of  bees;  and  Olympus  was  where  Jove  and 
his  lesser  gods  had  festival  and  palace;  and  Sinai  was 
where  it  was  mete  God  should  come  amidst  a  storm  of 
darkness  thick  at  noon,  and  lit  only  with  the  lightning's 
lamps,  and  shaking  with  the  tramp  of  God ;  and  on  Ara- 
rat the  lonely  ship  set  its  weary  foot  to  rest  a  thousand 
years.  Mountains  have  caught  the  eyes  and  thoughts  and 
imaginations  of  centuries  too  numerous  to  count.  They 
have  filled  men  with  a  sense  of  heaven  approachable  and 
God  accessible.  These  were  ladders  earth  had,  with  a  toil 
unspeakable,  thrown  up  against  the  lintel  of  the  day  that 
had  no  sad  eclipse  of  night. 

When  I  had  grown  to  manhood  with  never  a  glimpse 
of  other  than  a  prairie  hill,  one  summer  afternoon  I  came 
to  where  mountains  bulked  huge  against  the  skies. 
For  hours,  along  the  far  edge  of  the  smoking  plain  a  blue 
cloud  had  been  enlarging  and  solidifying;  at  first  a  dim 
shadow,  filmy  as  a  wreath  of  wood-smoke  which  a  quiet 
wind  could  disperse;  but  this  blue  stayed,  and  had  no 
wish  for  dissolution:  and  then  the  cloud  mounted  a  shadow 
higher,  and  became  a  trifle  bluer  and  less  tenuous,  and 
then  the  top  grew  to,  as  it  were,  the  shadow  of  a  shape 
which,  as  I  traced  with  wondering  and  eager  eyes,  refused 
to  give  exactitude  of  form.  Along  the  dusty,  wind-swept, 
and  blistering  plain  not  a  film  of  cloud  swung  its  banner 
in  the  sky.     The  heavens  were  brass,  molten,  despairing, 


WHENCE    COMETH    HELP 


terrible.  The  sole  clouds  which  came  across  our  goings 
were  stifling  clouds  of  desert  dust,  smoking  as  from  some 
burning  pit.  Watching  westward  eagerly,  our  blue  cloud 
shaped  into  abiding  hope.  We  neared:  it  stayed.  Our 
hearts  were  helped:  our  eyes  were  rested  from  our  desert 
glare.  The  blue  cloud  ridged  itself  into  definite  form. 
The  shadowy  outlines  gave  place  to  lines  fine  yet  stern  as 
an  etching.  We  felt  their  unwavering  blue.  Stability  took 
the  place  of  evanescence.  We  knew  we  were  sighting, 
not  lineaments  of  clouds,  but  looking  mountains  in  the 
face.  From  this  time  forward  the  mountain  effect  grew 
with  every  inch  of  journey.  What  had  been  shadowy  be- 
came granitic  in  definiteness  and  solidity.  The  blue 
climbed  the  heavens  like  a  sea-crag  from  a  mist.  The 
coolness  of  meadows  on  high  hills  began  to  call  to  our 
spirits.  We  were  forgetting  the  desert  sands  which  stifled 
breathing,  and  beginning  to  feel  our  feet  climb  precipices 
neighbors  to  the  snows.  The  mountains  were  invading 
the  landscape  of  our  life.  The  rims  of  distant  outlines 
became  dented  as  if  we  looked  not  at  a  surface  but  at  a 
bulk.  Shadows  became  evident  in  the  sides  of  these  climb- 
ing masses.  Sunshine  smiled,  here,  upon  a  peak;  and  there, 
the  cooling  shade  blackened  but  did  not  bleaken  a  moun- 
tain side.  The  range  sprang  into  definiteness  and  mean- 
ing. Peaks  began  to  break  up  from  the  blue  outline. 
The  cloud  effect  had  vanished.  We  were  in  presence,  not 
of  clouds,  but  a  goodly  gathering  of  God's  mountainous 
acclivities.  The  range  became  serrate  ;  and  on  a  sudden, 
exhilarant  moment,  a  white  flag  of  truce  to  heat  and  weari- 
ness and  care  fluttered,  or  seemed  to  flutter,  from  the 
turret  of  this  Castle  of  Content.  It  was  a  snowy  crest. 
And  we  felt  the  simoom  breath  no  longer;  but  cooling 
airs  swam  downward  from  those  remote  heights,  and  made, 
as  it  were,  autumnal  coolness  for  us  poor,  dusty  wayfarers. 
Mountains  ! 

And   in   the    afternoon,    in    sight    of   a    high   mountain 

u  209 


THE    SIMMONS    OK    THE    MOUNTAINS 


scarfed  with  snows,  I  set  foot  on  mountain  granite  for  the 
first,  and  lifted  heart  and  eyes  to  mountain  summits  for 
the  first,  and  began,  with  a  run  like  a  gust  of  wind,  the 
swift  ascent.  I  tarried  not  for  a  hostel.  I  asked  no  direc- 
tions. I  wanted  no  companions.  I  asked  no  leave.  God 
had  given  me  leave.  The  mountains  called  me  by  my 
name;  and  I  answered  with  a  hurrying  call,  "Coming!" 
And  I  came.  The  burnt  brown  rocks  built  ledges  or 
threw  hills  about  in  giant  profusion  and  bewilderment. 
Gullies  deep  enough  to  hide  cathedral  spires  plunged  down 
at  unanticipated  spots.  Pinnacles  arose,  built  by  defeated 
winds  and  storms.  Mountain  poppies  flowered  in  the 
rocks.  A  mountain  stream  rushed  past  as  answering  a 
wild  summons.  Lizards  flashed  along  the  yellow  bowl- 
ders. The  sun  burnt  hot  yet  welcoming.  From  the  white 
shield  the  mountain  wore  across  its  breast  a  cooling  wind 
breathed  gently  asa, prayer.     The  stout  hill  climbed  eagerly. 


The   air  was   an   ecstasy   for   breathing.     Hot   as   the   hot 
climb  was,  to  sit  in  shadow  of  rock  or  pine  was  to  wipe  the 
sweat  from  the  face  and  feel  delicious  coolness      "Like  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land."     Ho,  you  ancient 
mountaineer,  give  us  your  hand!     You  climbed  this  height 
before   me.      We    are    comrades.     Old    friend,   your  hand, 
your  hand.      Come,  may  I  sit  beneath  the  great  rock  you 
found  those  centuries  ago  ?     I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy 
and  seat   me   in   the    refreshment   of   the    blessed   shadow.' 
My    feet    refused    to    be    still.     They    said,    "Climb      We 
have  waited  for  our    lifetime    for   this   episode,   let   us   be 
gone;      and   can  a  man's   soul  hesitate  when  his  feet  have 
visions  of    far  peak   and   snow-cliff  and  shadows   murk   at 
noon?     Climb    on.      The   way   was    short.     I   was   high    as 
clouds  above  the  world,  but  had  barely  climbed  a  furlong 
of  the  mountain,  as  I  could  see  from  the  ascending  rocks 
that  rimmed  the  remote  sky.     My  breath  grew  short  and 
came  in  gusts;   but  what  of  that?     Breath  was  plenty.     I 
had  been  storing  it  up  all  my  life.      I  was  from  the  prairies 
where  the  winds  grew.     Plenty  of  breath,   but  the  moun- 
tains for  the  first  time  in  a  life.      Haste,  haste!     And  how 
I  climbed      Why,  swallows  were  not   more   keen  of  winff 
than    I    of    foot.      Weariness    was    wine.      The    mountain 
beckoned.      Clouds    floated    wistfully.      The    bleak   rocks 
climbed   steadily.     The  world  slowly  sunk  into  the  plain 
A  city  whence  I  started  my  climbing  came  to  be  a  thing 
of  uncertainty,  as  if  it  were  a  mirage.     I  had  climbed  for 


THE    COOLING    MOUNTAINS 


hours.  I  thought  to  scale  the  mountain  ere  the  sun  set. 
I  had  climbed  high.  The  air  was  growing  cooler  and 
sweeter.  Pines  were  booming  like  waves  on  the  rocks.  I 
sat  in  their  surf,  washed  with  their  spray.  Clouds  lay  at 
anchor  in  the  pine-tops  like  fisher-boats.     The  wind  blew 

tenderly.  Glory  searched  the 
crystalline  air  with  his  burn- 
ing lamp.  Nothing  was  hid 
from  the  light  thereof.  Note 
you  not,  my  heart,  when  these 
larger  moods  of  the  world 
walk  across  your  plains,  how 
Scripture  leaps  to  the  lips  like 
leap  of  swords?  Those  great 
beholders  felt  the  universe. 
They  had  been  with  God;  and 
such  companionship  clamored 
for  the  big  word  and  the  wide 
vision.  And  on  a  sudden,  like 
eclipse,  night  was  over  me 
with  its  tent  lit  with  stars. 
Was  it  night?  And  was  I,  a 
prairie  man,  alone,  unguided 
on  the  far  side  of  a  great  mountain,  pine-grown,  snow- 
crowned,  many-musiced,  gigantic,  muttering  as  if  with  in- 
tention of  tempests?  What  a  gala  night  to  be  overtaken 
by  the  dark,  citadeled  in  the  sky,  close  neighbor  to  many 
stars,  where  the  mountain  river,  when  the  night  had  come 
and  subdued  the  daylight  voices,  clamored,  lifting  up  many 
a  song  I  had  never  heard  sung,  and  having  great  rejoicing. 
To  sit,  as  I  sat,  with  the  stars  burning  brilliant  as  I  had 
never  known  them,  and  darkness  buckling  me  tight  to  the 
mountain's  side  as  I  had  been  a  sword  at  rest,  and  the  pines 
answering  to  the  flood  of  rushing  waters,  and  the  world 
blotted  out,  not  one  poor  rushlight  of  human  habitation 
visible,  the  earth  below  and  the  unseen  front  of  the  acclivity 

212 


A    VAGABOND 

M  Kl  AM 


at  rest  thousands  of  feet  above  me  in  the  starlit  darkness, 
silent  and  waiting  grandly  for  the  dawn!  This  was  my 
introduction  to  the  mountains.  And  in  truth  I  may  not 
say  that  I  could  have  wished  it  other  than  it  was.  A  noble 
memory,  which  companies  with  me  these  years,  and  will  not 
leave  me  in  the  years  to  come. 

Since  then,  how  many  mountains  have  I  climbed!  I  can 
not  count  them.  Selkirk,  Sierra,  Rocky,  Alleghany,  White 
Mountain,  Green  Mountain,  tor  and  ben, — these  have  I 
loved  to  frequent  and  to  climb.  Never  a  height  mine  eyes 
have  seen  that  my  feet  did  not  love  to  climb.  Their  far 
tops  beckon  me;  and  I  come.  I  am  Oread  by  wiser  rela- 
tion than  mythology.  These  fastnesses,  where  shadows 
and  snows  never  melt;  where  dawns  and  dusks  love  to 
weave  their  lustrous  patterns;  where  rivers  are  squeezed 
from  mountain  drifts,  and  spurt  from  glacier  fronts, — can 
I  ever  know  enough  of  them?  I  was  meant  to  tent  me  in 
their  shadows,  and  lie  awake  watching  their  clear-shining 
stars,  inhaling  their  wonder  and  delight:  lie  on  my  breast 
and  drink  at  these  Pierian  springs;  answer  the  echoes  of 
the  waterfalls  which  "flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries,"  out- 
run the  racing  streams  which  seem  so  strangely  eager  for 
the  sea;  climb  where  the  snows  waste  not  when  the  mid- 
summer comes;  rest  where  no  foot  has  left  a  print  in 
strange,  inaccessible  retreats, — meant  for  this,  or,  if  not, 
why  do  these  Alps  make  my  blood  churn  as  if  whipped 
by  some  swift  wheel  turned  by  a  relentless  current? 
Mountains,  we  men  of  the  lowlands  love  you,  and  sigh  for 
you  when  we  can  not  see  your  furrowed  sides  or  stand 
beneath  your  music-making  shadows.  The  memory  of 
you  makes  us  glad;  the  sight  of  you  makes  us  shout  like 
boys  let  out  from  school  on  unexpected  holiday;  and  to 
set  foot  upon  the  lowest  rung  in  your  snowy  ladder  to 
begin  the  sheer  ascent,  turns  us  into  dervishes  wild  as 
your  own  winter  winds. 

How  the  Alps  had  their  way  with  Ruskin!     How  the 

213 


THE    SUBLIME    MOUNTAINS 


Sierras,  through  and  through,  have  made  John  Muir  drunk 
as  a  bacchanal!  Who  can  blame  either  of  them?  For 
their  intoxication  we  love  them.  Best  men  will  always  love 
the  mountain  might  and  altitude  and  reserve,  and  fair, 
high  meadows,  and  rush  of  many  streams,  and  fading 
lights  at  evening,  and  kindling  lights  at  daybreak,  and 
solemn  epic  poem  of  achievement  for  this  world  of  things 
and  men.  The  glorious  mountains  were  in  the  blood  of 
Bret  Harte  and  of  Joaquin  Miller;  and  the  New  England 
mountains  were  in  the  blood  of  Whittier.  How  he  did 
love  them,  and  climb  them,  and  sing  them!  How  they 
haunted  him,  and  how  their  shadows  flung  them  across  his 
heart  like  the  shadow  on  a  dial!  They  were  his  dial- 
shadows.  Chimborazos  he  never  knew;  but  such  as  he 
knew,  he  loved  to  the  tuning  of  his  lute.  For  a  quiet 
mountain  atmosphere,  such  as  heartens  when  the  days  are 
sweating  in  the  sun,  this  has  not  many  peers: 

"  Vet  mi  my  cheek  I  feel  tin;  Western   wind, 

And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard  trees, 

And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken  bees 

Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green   with  constant  streams, 
And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cold  behind, 

Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  orchis  gleams, 
Ami  starred  with  white  the  virgin's  bower  is  twined." 

Mountains, — but  the  ones  he  knew,  cloud-shadowed,  unre- 
mote,  without  bleakness,  gorgeous  in  green,  wind-swayed 
as  if  they  were  plumes  tossed  aloft  to  catch  each  passing 
zephyr, — but  such  mountains  as  cool  the  hot  dusts  along 
the  burning  way  where  naked  feet  must  walk  on  necessi- 
tated iourneys.     The  mountain's  coolness  and  shadow  and 


song! 


The  mountains  climb.     Thev  want  the  skies.     To  know 


that  a  whole  continent  slopes  slowly  and  without  recogni- 
tion, to  crest  at  last  in  a  long,  snowy,  many-peaked  turbu- 
lence of  mountain  range,  is  to  bring  aspiration  home  to 
men.  I  never  cross  long  prairies  which  at  last  wash  green 
waves  against  bases  of  brown  rocks,  or  toss  up  against  the 
glistening  tumult  of  weary  foot-hills,  without  the  sense  of 
the  slow,  sure  climb  heavenward.  The  panting  engine 
knows  the  mountains  are  calling  from  afar.  Every  single 
mile  tilts  skyward  a  little,  just  a  little,  but  abates  not  of  its 
claim  to  the  far  summits,  as  if  to  whisper:  "We,  too,  are 


*j£lMHfettMll 


WHERE  WINTER   LASTS 


on  our  pilgrimage  to  the  pale  cliffs  that  wear  the  ermine 
of  the  snows.  They  are  ours.  We  also  are  longers  for 
the  sky.  We  are  coming  to  the  clouds."  Is  there  any- 
thing more  caressing  than  this  mood  of  slow  but  sure 
ascent,  this  longing  of  a  continent  to  neighbor  with  the 
sun,  this  solemn  journey  unto  and  into  heaven? 

Wrath    is    at    home    amongst    mountains.      Vengeance 
seems  to  have    displayed   all   its   virulence   here.     Anguish 

217 


is  written  everywhere.  Writhing  is  petrified  in  the  long 
ranges  of  the  bleak  upper  mountains.  Torture  worked 
its  worst  in  these  fierce  defiles.     Whichever  way  we  look, 

Inferno  has  been  sculptured  in 
r^kj)  the  eternal  rocks.  Those  mar- 
tyrdoms of  the  long  ago  which 
here  make  their  moan  per- 
petual, were  unchronicled  save 
by  this  stone  hieroglyph. 
What  fury  wrought  in  those 
remotest  days  when  moun- 
tains were  being  thrust  into 
place,  we  may  dimly  guess  at 
as  we  climb.  A  prairie  is  a 
place  of  peace;  a  mountain  is 
a  place  of  wrathing  tempests. 
Disorder  wild,  crude,  titanic, 
furious  as  Arthur's  battle  by 
the  sea,  here  holds  sway  by 
the  right  of  wrath.  Pike's 
Peak  summit  seems  as  it 
had  been  used  of  Him  who 
built  the  Rocky  Range  as  a 
refuse  heap,  where  materials 
chipped  from  the  thousand 
edges  of  precipice  and 
tower  had  been  thrown  in 
rank  disorder.  For  sense  of 
terrible  desolation,  for  hopelessness  and  woe,  this  pile  of 
wreckage  has  few  compeers.  What  gashes  and  huge  ax- 
hewings  are  among  these  mountain  passes!  How  they 
refuse  to  be  quiet  and  rest  in  placid  peace!  How  pass  on 
pass  of  darkness  at  noon,  of  springing  peak,  as  if  thrust  to 
the  awful  upward  leap  by  the  jagging  of  some 
cruder  spear  than  Achilles  or  Hector  ever  held 
in  iron  hand!     These  forlorn  rocks  seem  spirits 

218 


THE    TORTURE    OF 

THE    MO!  N  I  MNS 


in  hades.  They  have  each  one  a  fresh  form  of  woe.  They 
know  no  iteration.  They  are  strangled,  are  burnt  in  seven 
times  heated  furnaces;  are  flung  from  tall  pediments  into 
a  bottomless  pit;  are  urged  to  the  fearful  yawning  of  some 
fierce  chasm;  are  pendent  like  an  icicle  dripped  from  this 
cruel  roof  a  thousand  aeons  ago;  are  ranked  in  lines  like 
soldiers  doomed  to  die;  are  goaded  to  the  jutting  ledges 
of  slippy  acclivities;  are  tossed  like  frozen  foam  on  winter 
seashore;  are  broken  on  the  wheel;  are  impaled  as  ancient 
defeated  armies  were;  are  crushed  into  kneeling  like  those 
kings  who  did  obeisance  to  Nebopolasser;  are  turned 
topsy-turvy  as  hurled  from  high  mountain  pinnacles  long 
since  disappeared.  Frenzy  is  written  on  the  mountains 
which  crest  a  continent.  This  rank  and  wild  dishevelment 
is  to  be  had  for  the  going.  No  one  can  interpret  it. 
Pictures  such  as  these  presented  here  (though  they  are 
noble  interpretations)  are  inadequate.  The  massiveness  is 
lost.  The  thousand  feet  of  slipping  breccia  are  not  visible 
save  as  we  stand  at  the  base  and  watch  with  our  own  eyes 
the  fearsome  sight.  How  the  neat,  well-groomed  world 
is  rebuked  when  we  watch  this  mountain  dishevelment! 
Here,  blood  riots.  The  savage  instinct  for  might,  naked 
might,  becomes  apparent.  We  seem  part  of  the  early, 
wrathful  forces  of  the  making  of  a  world.  We  see  how 
worlds  were  made,  what  travail  was  on  their  birth,  what 
fury  reveled,  what  despair  was  victorious.  For  myself,  I 
confess  to  having  my  blood  tangle  like  a  yeasting  sea  when 
this  witness  to  the  frenzy  of  past  milleniums  is  beside, 
above,  below  me.  Here  are  the  perpetuated  evidences  of 
those  frightful  forces  which  took  in  their  two  fierce  and 
powerful  hands  a  continent,  and  tore  it  as  if  it  had  been 
a  rotten  rag,  and  scattered  its  remnants  wheresoe'er  they 
would.  Tragedy  is  here:  and  tragedy  does  souls  good. 
We  become  less  self-considering,  less  self-conscious.  In 
presence  of  pains  which,  matched  with  ours,  makes  ours 
but  make-believe,  life  becomes  strenuous.     Such  wild  con- 

219 


fusion  reshapes  our  attitudes.  A  cameo  ceases  to  be  the 
latest  word  art  has  to  utter.  The  colossal  and  tempestuous 
become  artistic.  Conventionals  are  slain  by  this  robber 
brood  of  mountain  anguishes.  To  be  trim,  we  learn,  is 
not  the  final  lesson  to  the  soul.  To  be  colossal  is  a  wider 
word,  even  though  to  become  so  we  needs  must  wade 
through  tragedy  neck-deep,  or  be  hurled  from  the  preci- 
pices as  these  mountains  were.  Enamel  is  not  of  the 
mountains.  How,  furious,  glutton  powers  worked  here 
fiercer  far  than  a  million  Goths  who  mistook  battle  for  a 
revel.  Far  away  in  the  interior  of  great  ranges,  where 
these  brutal  forces  swept  their  sea  of  angered  might,  it  is 
worth  while  to  climb  and  feel  the  fierceness  of  things. 
These  mountains,  with  their  healing  of  the  hills,  with  their 
compulsion  to  cease  thinking  of  self  and  learn  thinking  of 
them,  with  their  rest  and  great  blessed  peace  remote  and 
sweet,  grew  out  of  despair.  Is  that  worth  committing  to 
memory  as  we  do  favorite  poems?     I   think  it  is.) 

But  afar,  the  mountains  are  the  homes  of  peace.  How- 
ever tortured  the  interior  of  these  vast  ridges,  they  have,  to 
those  who  dwell  far  off,  the  seeming  of  an  endless  calm. 
'I  will  lift  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills1'  is  not  the  saying  of 
one  man,  but  of  a  race  of  men.  We  valley  dwellers  grow  so 
wearied,  and  our  eyeballs  ache;  but  when  across  long  dis- 
tances a  range  of  mountains  stands  blue  and  beautiful 
along  the  sky,  and  lifts  a  height  of  silver  up  anon  to  catch 
the  sun;  and  the  sunlight  smiles  from  the  mountain-sides, 
or  shadows  gloom  in  valleys  of  the  range;  and  all  the 
while  great,  unperturbed  quiet  rests  there:  no  wind  seems 
blowing:  no  restlessness  pervades  the  engaging  calm, — 
then  we  look  and  say,  "The  name  of  that  mountain  is 
Peace."  To  watch  a  distant  range  shift  lights  from  morn- 
ing unto  noon,  and  noon  unto  night;  to  see  dawns  wake 
and  dusks  fall  asleep;  to  have  scarfs  of  cloud  swung  from 
a  tall  staff  of  rugged  summit  or  wind  them  round  its 
breast;    to    feel   the   silent   majesty  of  a  might  the  storms 

220 


have  not  been  strong  enough  to  slay;  to  note  how  centuries 
have  walked  along  these  deep  denies  of  mountains,  but 
have  barely  worn  a  footpath  across  their  shoulders:  to  set 
these  stabilities  in  the  heart,  is  to  find  the  shadow  where 
we  rest  until  all  care  has  van- 
ished utterly.  The  lengthen-  i 
ing  shadows,  the  blackness  in- 
creasing on  the  eastward  sides 
as  night  comes  on,  the  varying 
lights  that  crowd  fast  as  the 
feet  of  winds  till  pinks  and 
purples  mix  them  with  the 
dusks  and  darks,— ah  me!  the 
rest  and  comfort  and  calmness 
of  the  mountains! 

Eternality  sits  on  the  moun- 
tains. We  feel  their  enduring- 
ness.  While  centuries  pass, 
these  abide.  Compared  with 
Mount  Tacoma  the  immortal 
Sphinx  is  but  a  child  in  years. 
How  little  have  the  wide-open 
Sphinx's  eyes  seen  to  compare 
with  what  those  unblinking 
mountain  eyes  have  looked 
upon!  Centuries,  tribes,  con- 
ditions,—all  have  come  and  passed  like  a  flitting  cloud;  but 
the  white  wonder  of  that  sole  peak  thrusting  out  from  the 
margin  of  the  widest  sea,  changes  not.  Europe  has  nothing 
so  bold,  beautiful,  bleak,  tremendous  as  this  one  height, 
where  winters  never  fold  their  tents,  nor  any  Summer  cloud 
wanders,  nor  any  song  of  brook  or  bird  disturbs  the  polar 
calm  of  the  far  solitudes.  Those  who  are  thought  to  know 
affirm  that  about  this  one  mountain's  loins  are  bound 
glaciers  which  outbulk  the  combined  glaciers  of  the  Alps. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  its  majesty  sinks  into  the  soul  so  that, 

223 


STEPPING   STONES  TO   HIGHER   THINGS' 


once  seen,  it  can  no  more  be  forgotten  than  a  face  we  love. 
Lasting,  is  the  opportune  word  to  apply  to  mountains. 
Those  bold  Alps  which  scorned  Caesar,  stood  across  the 
path  bold  Napoleon  took.  They  cared  not  for  the  one 
Caesar  nor  the  other.  Themselves  were  the  only  Caesars 
worth  the  naming.  Julius  and  Bonaparte  are  gone.  They 
can  not  return;  but  these  grim  Alps  stay  on.  They  shall 
stand  tall  and  unbending  at  a  hundred  Caesars'  funerals. 
The  Helvetians  are  no  more:  the  Alps  stare  at  the  sun  and 
stars  now  as  then.  The  clank  of  Roman  march  and  the 
wild  shriek  of  locomotive  leaping  through  the  cloudy 
passes  are  alike  inconsequent  to  those  old  brown  peaks. 
The  nations  die;  the  mountains  live.  Vesuvius  smoked 
over  doomed  Herculaneum,  and  smokes  now,  with  its  dim 
cloud  of  misty  fear  curling  slowly  through  the  brilliant 
Italian  blue.  The  lasting,  the  outlasting  hills!  Up  Mount 
Moriah,  Great-heart  Abraham  climbed  with  a  broken  heart: 
and  under  Oriental  splendor  of  sky  that  hoary  mountain 
climbs  with  its  templed  top  to  bid  the  morning  welcome 
now.  The  mountains  are  our  patriarchs.  The  Acropolis 
is  a  place  of  ruins,  a  hill  dedicated  to  despair;  but  what  it 
was  it  is.  What  Pericles  looked  upon  of  stern  acclivity, 
and  what  musing,  mighty  .Tschylus  brooded  over,  lasts. 
That  one  thing,  the  Acropolis,  would  those  old  doers 
and  dreamers  know  if  they  could  come  Athens  way  again. 
The  stately  Parthenon,  that  is  spent  like  an  exhausted 
fortune:  those  clambering  marble  dawns  are  wrecked  sea- 
ships  now;  but  the  old  stone-cored  hill  abates  nothing  of 
its  calm  supremacy,  and  frowns  down  on  Athens  now,  and 
will,  till  Athens  dies.  Small  wonder  is  it  if  men  have, 
without  schooling,  called  the  mountains  eternal.  If  storms 
and  years  cut  creases  in  their  sides,  we  can  not  see  them. 
The  mountains  wrap  their  silent  remoteness  around  them 
for  a  cloak,  and  never  tell  of  a  greater  yesterday.  "What 
we  are,  we  are,"  is  all  the  elocution  we  may  force  from 
these  grim  disciples  of  silence.     Unperturbed;  rimming  the 

224 


MOUNTAIX-BORN 


sky,  glutted  with  sunsets;  mystical  with  the  Eleusinian 
mysteries  of  millions  of  mornings;  courageous  to  withstand 
storms  and  winters  as  not  knowing  they  had  been;  flouting 
the  wasting  years  as  in  saturnine  jest;  billowed  against  the 
heavens  like  cumulus  clouds  which  sternly  refuse  to  dis- 
sipate; stern  yet  tender,  the  Puritans  of  Nature;  mottled 
with  lights  and  shadows;  fearful  with  winters  which  know 
no  bluebird's  call;  lasting,  sempiternal,  fated  to  outstay 
empires,  kingdoms,  republics,  careless  which  holds  sway; 
somber,  sunlit,  glorious, — mountains,  you  are  our  visible 
eternities;  and  toward  your  everlastingness  we  who  are 
about  to  die  turn  fading  glance,  and  then  salute  you. 

Many  a  night  have  I  lain  on  the  music-making  shore  of 
Tahoe,  and  watched  the  shifting  glory  of  the  dying  lights 
as  the  sun  set  and  the  day  expired.  Of  what  I  have  seen 
in  varying  portions  of  this  beautiful  world  of  ours,  I  call 
to  mind  not  any  thing  more  impressive.  Though,  as  for 
that,  all  things  are  so  expressive  and  impressive  that  while 

15  225 


we  watch  one  glory  it  blots  out  the  rest.  Nature  does  not 
compete  with  itself.  It  lifts  a  sunrise,  or  a  rising  star,  or 
a  wash  of  gigantic  sea-wave,  or  a  ruined  Alp,  or  a  stretch 
of  yellow  desert,  or  a  star-sown  night,  and  displays  these 
as  if  they  were  gems  thrown  loosely  in  the  pocket,  and 
meant  not  to  vie  with  each  other,  but  to  add  one  to 
another.  There  is  something  solitary  in  all  Nature  does. 
In  such  execution  is  neither  yesterday  nor  to-morrow.  Or 
by  Tahoe  to  see  day  pass  from  morning  until  dark,  to 
watch  the  first  dimming  stars  of  morning,  and  watch  on 
to  the  first  kindling  stars  of  dusk,  is  to  be  spectator  of 
gorgeous  pageants.  Nothing  kingly  done  of  man  was 
ever  half  so  wonder-drenched.  Tahoe  lies  in  a  deep  hollow 
of  the  upper  Sierras,  girt  round  by  rugged  mountains. 
There  are  no  passes  out  save  where  the  river  runs.  You 
climb  over  the  marl  of  extinct  volcanoes  to  come  to  this 
chalice  flooded  with  blue  sky;  for  so  the  waters  of  Tahoe 
seem.  They  are  as  blue  as  Italian  skies.  On  one  side  you 
climb  over  denuded  peaks  to  gain  access;  on  the  other 
you  climb  over  heights  black  with  pines.  Brave  cliffs 
fringe  the  lake  edge.  Shakespeare  Cliff  springs  up  a  thou- 
sand feet,  a  sea-crag  far  removed  from  the  prodigious  sea. 
Not  a  mountain  flower  roots  along  its  glassy  surface.  It  sen- 
tinels its  shore  like  a  forsaken  soldier.  But  in  the  back- 
ground, snowy  peaks  lift  up  their  imposing  altitudes. 
How  often  I  have,  through  the  singing  of  sunny  waves 
and  solemn  pines  standing  close  to  the  water's  edge,  looked 
at  the  white  shields  the  mountains  wore  each  across  his 
heart  as  fearing  attack!  Blue  lake,  green-black  pines;  and 
through  the  lattices  of  pine-trees  the  white  majesty  of 
snowy  crest;  the  singing  waves,  the  sighing  pines,  the 
silent  mountains;  the  world  shut  out  and  very  far  off,  the 
battalions  of  mountains  making  a  phalanx  about  lake  and 
pine,  so  that  neither  could  see  way  of  breaking  through,  nor 
was  there  any  sign  of  wishing  to  escape.  The  sun  glowed 
through  crystalline  air;   the  scant  clouds  were  in  no  hurry; 

226 


PSS 


the  sky  was  intensely  blue:  the  lake  was  blue  as  the  sky. 
Life  seemed  shut  out:  peace  seemed  shut  in.  The  calm 
mountains  loomed  afar.  The  cliffs  were  manly  and  not 
remote.  The  pines  climbed 
the  mountains  like  a  march- 
ing army,  in  no  haste,  but  as 
purposeful  to  stand  upon  the 
utmost  edge.  The  barren 
mountain-sides  wore  a  look 
of  sorrow;  the  snow  summits 
wore  a  look  of  elation;  the 
pine-grown  mountains  wore 
a  look  of  comfort;  and  the 
sunny  waves  kept  singing 
with  Pippa: 

"  The  year  's  at  the  Spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning  's  at  seven  ; 
The  hillside  's  dew-pearled  ; 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail  's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God  's  in  His  heaven — 
All  's  right  in  the  world." 


A  sunny  day  at  such  a  place 
is  fittled    to    set    the   surliest 
lips  to  sing.      The  waves  singing 
have    their    way.     Wonder    and    de- 
light make  their  joyous  holiday.     We 
can  not  weary  of  our  company.     The 
mountains  are  so  grand  and  fair  and  far, 
and  yet  in  reach  of  a  voice  if  we  were  to  call. 
Waterbrooks  come  laughing  down  from  the  moun-      tahoe-bolnd 
tain    snows,    and    rush    with    great    laughter    into 
Tahoe,  whose  waters  are  clear  as  air;   and  the  rejoicing  sun 
swings  his  half-circle  with  delight,  until  at  evening  the  west- 
ern   mountain-slopes,    where    pines    climb    from    base    to 

227 


summit,  grow  black,  and  the  sun  sinks  below  peaks  black  as 
storm-clouds.  Then  begins  the  battle  between  light  and 
darkness,  and  the  play  of  colors  on  the  distant  summits  and 
in  deep  cuts  of  the  ragged  mountain  sides,  and  the  twist  of 
airy  banners  of  rainbow  tints  from  many  a  peak.  And  the 
waters  wash,  wash,  with  melody  divine;  and  the  banners 
float  out  in  wild  rapture;  and  the  clouds  are  illumined;  and 
the  sky  overhead  is  full  of  light,  while  the  valley  lies  gloom- 
ing almost  into  night;  and  Tahoe  is  black;  and  the  pines  are 
sunk  to  sleep;  and  deep  ravines  in  remote  heights  change 
colors  moment  by  moment, — sometimes  purples,  sometimes 
pink  as  wild-rose  petals,  sometimes  crimsons,  sometimes 
orange,  and  gently  wafting  from  one  to  another  as  if 
some  subtle  wind  blew  them;  and  through  all,  the  white 
peaks  of  snow  flashed  strange  and  bewildering:  the  Alpine 
glow  tarried,  and  tried  to  reclaim  the  dusk  from  the  dark. 
By  and  by  all  the  west  light  had  shaded  away  to  gloom, 
and  every  hint  of  prismatic  color  had  vanished  from  moun- 

| 


FT  DAT    nniTTH  P       MOTIVT    A\n    SHAnDiV 


tain-top  or  mountain-side,  and  the  hollow  where  the  lake  lay 
tuning  its  constant  lute  was  blind  with  darkness.  Then 
the  gentle  stars  stepped  out  and  across  the  heavens,  till 
every  star  was  lit:  and  the  lake  became  a  sky  of  undulant 
stars,  as  if  a  strong  wind  had  blown  the  firmament  into  a 
wavelike  beat.  The  milky  way  strewed  its  far-going 
streets  with  silver  dust;  and  to  believe  I  saw  angels  walk- 
ing on  that  shimmering  pavement  was  not  a  caprice,  but  a 
necessity.  O  angels  of  the  dusk,  walking  slow  to  the  tune 
of  heavenly  melody  along  this  street  silver-paved,  going 
we  know  not  where,  but  whither  ye  know, — O  angels,  have 
ye  mountains  like  ours  in  your  fair  skies,  and  deep  shadows 
of  growing  night  and  quiet  between  the  lights  where  rest 
cometh  infinite  and  sweet? 

In  tall  mountains,  where  perpetual  winter  bars  doors 
against  all  comers,  the  avalanche  "mews  his  mighty  youth." 
Snows  fall  silent,  restful,  harmless  as  a  smile,  until  the  rude 
mountain  has  his  shoulders  and  breast  snow-bound,  and 
all  his  streams  are  hid  as  in  a  dungeon,  and  the  pines,  if 
they  grow  so  high,  bend  or  break  under  their  weight  of 
winter,  and  the  great  creases  in  the  mountain  are  ironed 
out;  until,  to  one  looking  from  some  superior  eminence, 
nothing  is  perceptible  save  this, — a  quiet  which  might 
invade  eternity.  All  is  at  rest.  Not  a  feather  drops  from 
a  passing  wing.  All  wings  seem  folded.  Here  rest  the 
wearied  mountains,  calm  as 

"  The  Sabbath  of  eternity, 

One  Sabbath  deep   and  wide." 

No  tumult  intrudes.  The  benediction  of  "Now  abideth 
peace"  must  have  been  pronounced  above  these  Sabbath 
heights — when,  with  a  leap  wild  and  despairing,  a  whole 
mountain-side  plunges  downward,  a  frenzy  of  motion  and 
death!  all  peace  is  dead:  here  is  resistless  ruin.  The 
avalanche  lurches,  crushes,  mangles,  bears  down  forests  as 
if  they  were  blades  of  grass,  suffers  no  impediment,  hurls 

229 


villages  to  their  graves,  swirls  savagely  like  a  tortured  sea, 
lunges  downward,  downward,  till  wrath  is  burnt  out;  and 
then  settles  down  to  its  original  calm,  as  if  no  devastation 
had  been  wrought.  Mountains  nurture  such  things,  like 
themselves,  sublime.  No  usual  things  need  think  to  find 
habitations  in  these  stupendous  ranges  in  which  continents 
ridge  themselves.  Where  the  Himalayas  look  down  in 
calm  disdain  on  all  the  earth,  sneer  at  the  sea,  scout  at  the 
wide  rivers,  frown  at  the  clouds,  make  summers  afraid,  call 
to  the  edelweiss,  "Stay  yonder  where  I  bid  you;"  will  not 
let  the  Alpine  rose  flower  save  one  lone  blossom;  insult 
the  sunlight,  saying,  "You  can  not  thaw  these  snow  banks: 
they  are  mine;  sneer  at  men  who  think  to  climb  their  pin- 
nacles; hide  pitfalls  for  them;  bite  them  with  their  frosts; 
crush  them  in  their  icefalls;  bury  them  in  their  crevasses, — 
these  mountains  own  their  sky.  Somewhere  men  can  not 
invade.  Niagaras  may  be  led  blind  like  old  Samson  to 
the  mill;  but  the  eternal  mountains  set  barriers  against 
which  all  strivings  seem  as  helpless  as  frost  on  window- 
panes.  And  how  forbidding  such  mountains  are!  I  recall 
that  one  of  the  Napoleonic  medals  celebrating  the  passage 
of  the  Alps  pictures  the  mountain  as  a  giant  of  imposing 
frame,  sitting  with  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chin,  with  knot- 
ted, huge  hands  twisted  over  them,  and  so  obstructing  the 
path  armies  or  man  would  take;  sits  there  terrific,  Giant 
Despair  of  the  impassable  mountains.  When  he  depicted 
the  mountain  so,  the  artist  had  a  vision.  The  heavy,  set 
face  bearded,  the  shoulders  stooped,  impregnable  he  seems, 
and  is.  So  the  mountains  are  crouched,  stooped,  resent- 
ful of  intrusion,  fortressed  for  the  thousand  years  with 
winters  and  with  avalanche  and  storms.  The  forbidding 
mountains! 

And  these  sullen  heights  near  to  the  stars,  yet  careless 
of  them,  are  brothers  of  the  fertile  valleys,  and  are  makers 
of  the  rivers  which  swim  out  to  the  far  deltas,  and  make 
harbors  for  the  hammered  ships,  and  roadways  inland  for  the 

230 


THE  RUGGED  ROCKS 


racing  tides.  Mountains  are  growing  rivers  on  those  bar- 
ren winter  uplands;  and  these  rivers  are  slaking  the  thirst 
of  the  plains,  and  growing  interminable  forests,  and  doing 
numberless  generosities;  and  these  recluse  mountains,  after 
all,  are  democratic,  and  makers  and 
sharers  of  the  gladness  of  the  world. 
The  mountain  leads  a  life  of  service; 

and  service  is  divine.     How  all  great      ..m.r.~:;  KjL*  *%S' 

rivers  are  mountain  begotten,  is  ever 
to  me  a  heartening  thought.  Nile, 
Amazon,  Rhone,  Rhine,  Susque- 
hanna, Ohio,  Sacramento,  Missouri, 


-whence 


come    ye, 


and    they   are 


MOMENT  S  QUIET 


clamant,  "From  the  mountains. 
Mountain  born!  These  lonely, 
lordly,  exclusive,  uncondescending 
mountains,  cold,  even  fierce,  are 
neighbors  of  the  cattle  herd  and  the 
cottage  and  the  child.  And  is  it 
not  good  to  consider  how  the  whole 
world  is  ours;  how  all  things  con- 
tribute to  other  things;  how  the 
trees  are  nest-place  for  the  bird,  and 
the  wild  bee  carries  pollen  on  his 
dusty  wings  to  fertilize  the  flowers; 
and  how  the  soil  grows  forests;  and 
how  forests,  in  their  turn,  do  not  impoverish,  but  enrich  the 
soil ;  and  how  seas  lift  into  the  sky,  and  send  argosies  of 
clouds  to  make  the  remote  inlands,  which  never  so  much 
as  heard  there  was  a  sea,  to  glow  with  harvests  and  shine 
out  with  blossoming  and  fruiting  orchards;  and  how  the 
mountains  contribute  to  the  ocean,  and  construct  Niagaras 
and  Yosemites?  Nothing  liveth  to  itself,— that  is  very 
sure  and  full  of  comfort.  And  from  their  stately  thrones 
the  mountains  watch  their  rivers  flowing  through  thousands 
of  miles,   and  making  lands  habitable  and  flowers  to  lift 

233 


zzzm 


their    morning    faces;     and    mountains    watch    their    rivers 
coming  to  the  sea,  and,  as  they  watch,  rejoice. 

Three  of  our  American  mountain  folk  are  right  worthy 
of  their  habitation,— the  ouzel,  the  mountain  sheep,  the 
eagle.  I  name  the  ouzel  in  this  companionship  because  he 
frequents  the  waterfalls  far  up  against  the  shining,  icy  prec- 
ipice of  the  glaciers.  He  is  not  daunted  by  their  altitiude. 
What  lures  this  bird  so  high  above  the  clouds  and  on  the 
frontiers  of  perpetual  winter,  no  one  can  guess,  save  that 
he  has  been  invited  here  of  God.  Suffice  it  that  hither  he 
comes.  Not  the  stormy-petrel  or  the  skylark  are  more 
intoxicating  to  the  imagination.     The  ouzel  is  stream-born. 


KZEL'S    HAIN'T 


His  nest  is  on  some  leafage  continuously  sprayed  by  the 
shining  waterfall.  He  lives  amidst  the  torrents.  He  feeds 
on  stream  bottoms.  Rapids  and  waterfalls,  with  their 
white  sheets  of  beating  cascade,  are  his  delight.  His  song 
leaps  like  a  star  into  the  sky.  Living  generally  and 
strangely  quite  alone,  his  song  never  ceases.  Winters  mar 
not  his  mirth.  Storms  are  his  joy,  if  so  be  his  beloved 
stream  is  at  hand.  His  flight  is  always  along  waterways, 
and  though  the  stream  be  only  a  few  feet  in  width,  he 
wings   his   sinuous  way  so  as  to  always  be  so  his  shadow 

234 


may  be  in  the  shining  stream.  His  flight  runs  straight  up 
the  vertical  leap  of  a  waterfall.  Water  wakes  his  flight 
and  song.  He  is  reveler,  and  dwells  amidst  the  iridescent 
spray  of  singing  waterfalls.  His  home  is  there;  his  joy  is 
there.  Where  waters  dash  from  rock  to  rock  or  slip  down 
sheer  inclines  with  a  swish  like  winter  grasses  when  answer- 
ing to  a  wind,  there  you  shall  find  this  bird  of  the  mist. 
Where  rainbow  from  the  falls  lifts  its  dazzling  arch,  this 
bird  of  promise,  with  happy  note  and  rapturous  flight, 
laughs  in  and  out  as  if  the  rainbow  and  the  stream  had 
found  a  bird-form  and  a  voice. 

The  mountain  sheep  is  our  most  adventurous  moun- 
taineer. I  confess  to  being  proud  of  him.  The  timidity 
characteristic  of  domestic  sheep  is  far  removed  from  him. 
He  is  bold  as  a  viking.  He  has  no  trepidation,  no  hesita- 
tion. Fear  and  he  have  never  met.  Born  in  uplands 
twelve  thousand  feet  in  the  sky,  where  the  winds  blew  shrilly 
across  miles  of  snowy  range,  he  pastures  in  all  but  inacces- 
sible altitudes,  stays  where  the  clouds  shelter  him  from  the 
lowland,  climbs  precipices  no  mountaineer  skill  could  touch, 
goes  where  no  hunter  can  follow,  without  the  courtesy  of  a 
hesitant  look  leaps  chasms  which  seems  impassable,  springs 
over  cliffs  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  height,  not  one 
adventurous  spirit  but  a  whole  flock  one  after  the  other  in 
order,  like  soldiers  making  a  charge,  neither  daunted,  nor 
yet  aware  that  any  high  deed  is  being  done.  His  feet  are 
padded  so  that  he  can  cling  to  what  appears  a  glassy  sur- 
face of  unscalable  rock,  and  fords  fierce  mountain  torrents, 
leaping  unconcernedly  from  rock  to  rock  slippy  with 
dashing  waters;  standing  in  this  churn  of  spray  with  a  look 
of  unconcern  in  the  eyes  which  marks  him  kinsman  of  the 
eagle  and  the  winds.  This  Rocky  Mountain  sheep  is  tute- 
lar deity  of  the  grim  mountain  fastnesses,  where  waters 
snarl  and  winds  blow  gales  that  never  know  the  solace  of  a 
calm.  What  a  poor  god  Pan  was,  compared  with  this 
mountain  diety  of  ours,  this  scorner  of  the  lowlands,  this 

235 


harmless  but  fearless  brother  to  the  mountain  cliff  and  the 

mountain    torrent    and    the    mountain    cloud  !       The    fleet 

chamois   does   not    impress  my  imagination   as   this   huge, 

horned,    sure-footed,    fleet,    care-free    scion    of  the 

mountain  and  storm. 

And    mountains    have    their    eagles.      The 
Andes  have  their  condors,  huge-winged  things, 
sitting  on  a  far  peak  of  some  Chimborazo;   but 
for  me,  eagles  are  the  wings  of  the  mountains. 
This  bird  belongs  here.     Mountains  have  right 
to  such  exponency  as  his.     His  daring  flight 
makes  nothing    of    acclivities  men    can    not 
scale.    An  eagle  does  not  know  mountain  or 
height;  his  flight  flings  shadow  on  them  all, 
as  if  to  signify  ownership.     The  clouds  shot 
through  and  through  with  bolts  of  fire  are 
his  as  well  as  theirs.     Those  who  have  filled 
the    eagle's    talons    with    thunderbolts    were 
not  misinformed.     They  saw  him  when  he 
▼   •  took  a  fistful   of  the   arrows  of  the  storm, 

and  held  them  against  his  day  of  battle.  On 
some  mountain  ledge  which  only  wings  can 
climb,  there  he  builds  his  house  against  the 
dawn.  There  his  brood  shrills.  There  he  flings  wings  to 
welcome  back  the  light.  There  he  lifts  his  weird  cry,  un- 
musical but  terrible.  There  he  spreads  his  slow  flight. 
Thence,  like  a  thunderbolt,  he  falls.  There  he  climbs  the 
sky  to  teach  the  mountains  they  have  not  mastered  the  art 
of  climbing  to  the  heavens.  I  have  watched  an  eagle  climb 
the  blue  dome  with  never  a  flutter  of  pinion,  just  by  down- 
ward and  upward  slide,  as  if  too  indolent  to  use  the  pro- 
digious rowing  of  his  wings,  but  moving  upward,  upward, 
till  he  is  a  speck  above  the  mountain  snows;  then  that  dim 
speck  wai,  lost,  and  then,  from  his  invisible  fields  of  air,  I 
have  seen  him  plunge  down  through  thousands  of  feet,  past 
mountain  precipice  and  snow  and  pine,  and  cleansing  water 

236 


A   (,<)U)EN   EAGLE 


course  and  flocks  of  clouds,  in  his  terrific  flight,  till,  I  could 
answer  for  it,  he  would  dash  him  in  pieces  on  the  yellow 
rocks  below,  only  to  see  him  curb  his  headlong,  ruinous 
rush,  and  sail  tranquilly  up  against  the  azure,  past  some 
ledge  on  his  far  aerie,  and  bathe  him  again  in  the  wide  blue 
sky.  Mountain,  the  eagle  is  thine;  and  eagle,  the  moun- 
tain is  thine — two  majesties,  two  aspirations,  two  despairs. 
How  beautiful  the  lesser  mountains  are!  If  they  fail 
in  sublimity,  they  are  passing  rich  in  beauty.  The  Cats- 
kills,  the  Alleghanies,  the  Tennessee  Mountains,  the  Adi- 
rondacks,  the  mountains  of  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire, 
and  the  Berkshire  Hills, — could  any  one  go  among  them 
and  not  love  them?  The  roll  on  roll  of  hills,  the  climbing 
mountains  brown  with  shadows  of  blessed  trees  from 
base  to  top,  green,  with  rivulets  trickling  down,  and 
brooks  laughing  aloud,  and  valleys  each  with  its  own  riv- 
ulet or  river,  and  winding  roads  nosing  around  as  if  play- 
ing "  Eye-Spy,"  and  bolder  mountains  lifting  up  their 
facades;  and  when  Autumn  fades,  all  those  green  valleys 
and  mountains  are  glorious  with  golden  topaz  and  carbuncle 
and  jacinth  tints.  Such  things  God  does  among  his  lesser 
mountains.     Where  does  more  comfort  keep  open  house 


than  in  the  New  England  mountains,  where  meadows  lie 
knit  into  the  texture  of  the  landscape,  and  hillsides  are 
packed  with  pines  through  whose  serpent  roots  the  rollick- 
ing water-brooks  go  with  much  laughter,  to  lose  themselves 
for  a  half  hour  among  meadow  grasses,  and  so  get  rest 
for  another  race  down  some  ravine  too  steep  for  climbing, 
but  just  right  for  mountain  brooks  going  down  hill.  Such 
fun  streams  have  among  the  hills.  Such  joy  the  hills  have 
in  their  streams,  through  which  the  darting  of  speckled 
trout,  swift  as  the  light  though  their  dartings  are,  can  be 
seen  through  waters  which  look  crystal,  as  if  they  were 
liquified  air.  And  the  mountains  wave  their  stately  crests 
as  in  solemn  welcome  to  whosoever  cometh  from  the  sweaty 
cities  to  these  hills  of  help;  and  care  looses  the  grip  of  its 
cruel  fingers,  while  the  waters  ring  their  silver  bells,  and 
hills  cast  their  shadows  westward  at  morning  and  eastward 
at  night,  and  the  landscape — tree,  and  mountain,  and 
meadow,  and  purling  brook,  and  waterfall,  and  helpful 
shadow  and  steep  incline,  and  moss-grown  rocks,  and  fallen 
pines,  and  lakelets  hid  away  too  modest  for  the  sun — con- 
spires to  give  the  weary  heart  a  holiday. 

What  days  of   delight   I    have    passed    among    English 
hills!       How    the    Lake    Country    has    enticed    me! 
How  the  long  swell  of  wavelike  mountain  leading 
from  Grasmere   on    toward    the    sea,  has   filled 
me   with    solemn    gladness   when    along   the 
sky,  looking  for  the  sea,  hummocks  have 
stood    up,   peering   like    a   woman   watch- 
ing   for    her    sailor    making    signal    from 
his  boat.     And  when  I  saw  these  watchers 
first,    I    made    mental     note    that    I    had 
never    seen     just     that     sweet     perversity 
of  nature.     This  was  exclusively  the  pos- 
session of  this  dear  English  Lake  region, 
where     the     Indian    Summer    of    Words- 
worth's presence  never  lifts;    but  one  day 
238 


MOUNTAIN   POPPIES 


in  Oklahoma,  going  along,  not  thinking  of  English  hills,  I 
saw  the  Wichita  Mountains  building  peaks  blue  as  a  dis- 
tant sea,  and  to  my  surprise  and  gladness,  there,  seen  afar, 
were     watcher     hummocks 
which  might   have  been  mis- 
taken for  those   hills  across 
the  sea.     And,   I    have  pon- 
dered much  on  God's  kindly 
multitude    of    beauties,  how 
He  turns  His  kaleidoscope, 
and  the   landscapes   reshape 
themselves    into    new   forms 
of    surprise    and    loveliness. 
He    will    not    let    us    grow 
sleepy  with  fatigue  of  same- 
ness.      He    has    felicity    of 
loveliness  which  puts  us  out- 
door folk  into  the  mood  of 
poetry.     What  gray  days  of 
delight   have    I    experienced 
in   the   Scotch    mountains, 
trudging  all  the  day  through 
a   steady   pour   of    highland 
rain,     when     lochs     were 
shrouded  in  clouds  and  every 
ben  wore  fogs  like   a  tartan 
about  his  breast!     A — jour- 
ney    across     the     sagging 
moors  where  the  Highland  cattle  graze  careless  of  the  rain, 
and  the  solitary  shepherd,  girt  with  his  plaid,  walks  along 
the  hills,   himself  a  figure  carved    from    the    mist,   and   his 
flock  scattered  about  him  like  rags  of  the  fog,  and  the  slow 
wreaths  of  smoky,  absorbing  mists  lie  along  the  ben  ridges, 
or  cloud  them  utterly,  or  cut  summit  from  base,  or  leave  the 
top  suspended  in  mid-air,  cut  off  from  any  visible  support, 
—I  could  see  the  "ghosties"  tramping  from  the  misty  hills. 

239 


ORCHESTRAL    MUSIC: 


Streams  among  the  rugged,  lofty  mountains  are  foun- 
tains of  unfailing  delight.  The  wild  leap,  the  boulders 
big  enough  to  make  an  English  hill,  the  profuse  neglect 
where  the  brook's  course  is  interrupted  by  innumerable 
boulders  thrown  helter-skelter,  not  to  the  brook's  undoing 
but  to  its  evident  sincere  delight.  How  the  waters  crumple 
against  these  hundred  rocks  in  such  laughter  as  not  to  be 
able  to  see  which  way  to  run!  Shrill  voices  lift  and  shout 
in  many  a  key,  like  children's  voices.  Here  are  pools  of 
sunlight,  waters  that  burnish  the  rocks,  rocks  that  each 
give  a  separate  ledge  for  waterfall,  joined  boulders  which 
press  the  stream  into  narrow  channels  for  a  moment  for 
the  fun  of  seeing  the  spurt  when  the  water  races  from  its 
cramped  quarters  to  where  it  can  spread  out  into  broad 
shallows,  displaying  pebbles  as  if  they  were  multicolored 
gems  inviting  the  sunlight  to  lave  them  and  the  waters  to 
love  them,  and  the  brook  gathers  in  dark  pools  under  rocks 
and  under  the  distorted  roots  of  pine,  with  a  black  pine 
leaning  boldly  above  them.  To  wade  barefoot  in  a  brook 
like  this!  Let  me  not  talk  of  this  lest  I  drop  the  pencil 
and  trudge  off  incontinently  to  the  mountain  where  the 
brooks  are  calling  me,  and  the  sunlit  water  dimples  on  the 
roseate  rocks,  and  the  shag  of  climbing  rocks  goes  heaven- 
ward like  soldiers  scaling  a  fortress;  and  the  canyon  shuts 
its  two  huge  hands  close  together  so  that  the  sun  never 
gets  to  kiss  the  waters  in  the  stream;  and  the  call  of  the 
waters  is  like  the  clamor  of  voices  of  our  disappearing  yes- 
terdays. Barefoot  in  the  mountain  streams,  where  the 
waters  swirl  about  your  ankles  and  tickle  your  legs  with 
their  spider-webs  of  ripple,  and  your  halloo  brings  a  troop 
of  echoes,  and  the  sky  is  squeezed  together  into  a  blue 
thatch  above  you,  and  you  laugh  as  you  wade  setting  naked 
feet  daintily:  for  the  rocks  are  jagged  and  one's  feet  are 
little  schooled  to  such  closeness  of  contact  with  nature. 
Or  to  sit  on  a  sunny  boulder,  with  feet  hanging  down  into 
the  glistering  waters!      Really  I  think  I  would    soon  turn 

240 


into  a  Nereid  (a  man  Nereid,  to  be  sure),  if  I  were  often 
found  wading  mountain  streams  where  bold  peaks  climb 
and  front  the  universe  of  stars. 

It  was  Summer.  Down  where  men  dwelt,  the  city- 
sweltered.  The  tropics  had  moved  north.  Streets  were 
baked  like  burnt  bread.  People  boiled  or  broiled.  I  did 
both;  and  having,  as  I  thought,  had  my  share,  and  hearing 
the  mountain  and  the  mountain  streams  calling  my  name 
in  persistent  and  persuasive  tones,  I  came.  Past  foothills 
and  green  fields  hemming  the  mountains,  up  through 
armies  of  rocks  which  had  no  freedom  and  could  not  march 
into  the  upper  fields  of  air  and  mountain-ingratiating  shad- 
ows, I  climbed  steadily,  joyously,  along  a  mountain  river. 
The  dusty  road  wandered  along  the  dustless  stream.  When 
I  felt  the  blister  of  heat,  and  thought 
me  of  my  much  boiling  and  much  broil- 
ing on  the  plain,  I  stepped  from  the 
dusty  road  to  the  shining  river,  and, 
lying  flat,  drank  and  drank,  not  because 
I  was  thirsty,  but  because  I  had  been 
thirsty;  and  this  was  a  mountain  stream 
laughing,  lurching,  and  offering  drink 
for  the  fun  of  it.  All  day  I  marched, 
like  a  soldier  under  orders,  along  the 
upward-climbing  river.  What  dear 
madrigals  the  river  sang  to  me  I  will 
not  tell.  That  is  a  privacy.  But  what 
songs  they  were,  and  how  I  hear  them 
now!  And  the  burnt  rocks  crept  close 
and  wrinkled  their  lips  ;  but  the  river 
sang,  not  heeding  their  surliness;    and  asleep 

the    mountain    climbed.       So    did    the 

river.  So  did  I.  The  sun  stood  at  noon.  The  heat 
was  fierce;  but  the  river  was  cool  and  rejoicing,  and 
the  rocks  afforded  shadow  inviting  for  a  tired  man,  and 
the  shadow  was  like  wine:   but  as  afternoon  jogged  on,  the 

243 


shadows  left  the  rocks  and  crept  into  the  road,  and  tossed 
clouds  along  the  stream,  although  its  waves  were  sunny  and 
songful  as  before;  and  the  mountain  shadows  filled  the 
gorge  until  all  sunlight  was  put  to  flight  and  the  evening 
came.  1  camped  for  the  night  at  a  bend  of  the  stream. 
The  mountains  were  yellow  as  Autumn  leaves.  A  grass 
plot,  soft,  cool,  inviting,  rimmed  my  side  of  the  water. 
My  camp  was  at  the  elbow  of  the  river  where  it  turned 
suddenly  up  an  unexpected  gorge.  A  boulder  high  as  my 
head  made  a  table  fit  for  the  Argonauts.  A  fallen  pine, 
prone  but  not  uprooted,  lay  sprawled  full  length  along  the 
river  edge,  beautiful,  fragrant,  delicious  with  the  darkness 
gathered  in  its  branches  while  light  was  abundant  in  the 
sky.  Just  where  the  river  turned  up  the  gorge  it  took  a 
run  and  jump  of  about  four  feet,  making  great  laughter 
and  abundant  music.  The  mountains  closed  in  on  every 
side,  and  climbed  eager  for  the  rising  of  the  moon.  What 
a  place  to  camp!  The  singing  river,  the  prone  pine,  the 
yellow  rocks,  the  swish  of  waters  laving  the  naked  rocks, 
the  slow  wind  crooning  among  the  pines,  the  stream  for  a 
wash-dish  and  the  stream  for  a  drinking  cup  (spots  changed, 
as  becometh  a  Christian,  not  using  the  same  spot  to  drink 
in  and  to  wash  in),  scant  pines  pluming  the  ascending 
yellow  rocks,  air  a  balm  of  spicery  and  mountain  cleanness, 
mountain  poppies  fallen  asleep  early,  clean  tired  out. 
Supper  is  had  cooked  on  the  rock,  with  pine-wood  fire, 
fragrance  oozing  out  and  sparkles  shooting  out.  A  pine 
fire  amidst  mountains  on  a  summer  night,  and  the  incense 
of  dead  forests  mixing  with  the  incense  of  living  forests, 
and  the  exhilarance  of  mountain  air  while  a  mountain  river 
sang!  Under  what  happy  conjunction  of  stars  must  I  have 
been  born!     And  the  night  set  in.     The  world  is  remote. 


I  have  forgotten  it.     I  lie  under  the  stars.     No  tent  for  a 
lover  of  mountains.     Let  him  use  the  sky  for  a  coverlid, 
and   the   stars  for  candles,   and   the  fragrant  pine  fire  for 
holy  nard.     1  lie  alongside  the  fallen  pine,  with  its  branches 
touching   me  as  they  sway.     My  head   is  near 
and  toward  the  waterfall,  so  that  not  one  of 
its  rejoicing  voices  was  lost  to   my  heart.     Jp 
The   sentinel  pines    climbing    the    rocks,     JM 
stood    silhouetted    against    the    sky. 
Clouds    cluttered    across    the    heavens. 
Stars  winked    through  the   half-closed 
shutters    of    the    clouds.      The    wind 
amongst  the  chasms  was  as  a  strong 
man  taking  long  breaths.     The   sol- 
emn   mountains    were     fast     asleep, 
but   very   noble   in   their    slumbers, 
with  broad  shoulders  erect,  on  which 
stars  might  rest  if  they  grew  weary 
in   the   night,   and   on   which   eager 
dawns  were  free  to   stand  tiptoe   if 
they  would.     To  fall  asleep  seemed 
a  crime.     Such  nights  in  such  places 
were    meant     for    waking,    not    for 
sleeping.     By  and  by  the  slow  moon 
climbed  the  east.    The  eastern  rock- 
row  of  black  mountain  won  a  halo  of 
palpitating    silver;     then     the     lunar 
shield   flashed  out   above  the  serried 
blackness;  then  gentle  light   illumined 
the  western   mountain-tops,    and    stole 
down  stealthily  toward  the  river,  calling 
to  the  moonlight,  "Come,  O  come!"  I 
lie   and  watch.     The    clouds    grew   tired, 
and  went   to   bed   like   the    poppies.     The 
stream  and  I  and  the  moonlight  staid  awake; 
but  in  due  time  I  succumbed  to  the  flute-song 

245  MOONLIGHT 


of  the  waterfall,  and  heard  this  music  dimly,  and  saw  the 
moonlight  wasting  to  a  silver  haze,  and  sleepily  said  my 
prayer:  "I  thank  Thee,  O  God  of  the  out-of-doors,  that 
Thou  art  in  the  mountains;  and  I  am  with  them  and  Thee. 
Hear  my  voice  mixed  with  the  music  of  Thy  waterfalls,  and 
think  of  my  prayer  as  if  it  were  a  song  to  Thee  whom  I 
love  to  bless  for  this  great  mercy  of  the  mountain  and 
mountain  music  and  shadow,  and  moonlight  and  mystery. 
Thee  I  love  and  bless."  And  the  stream  chanted,  "He 
heareth  prayer."  And  I  was  in  happy  sleep.  And  God 
was  with  me  till  the  dawn. 

Mountains  blue,  dreamy,  remote,  compounded  as  of 
earth  and  air,  white  as  built  of  summer  cloud,  builded  with 
the  massive  masonry  of  God,  tranquil,  masterful,  compell- 
ing wonder,  watched  by  the  stars,  abundant  in  waterfalls, 
glorious  in  strength,  battlemented  for  sunsets,  crowned 
with  noons,  steeped  in  dawns,  the  expectation  of  the  low- 
lands, a  rest  for  care,  heights  to  which  dying  eyes  lift  their 
last,  longing,  homesick  look  before  they  front  the  moun- 
tains of  eternity, — mountains,  pray  you,  build  your  sublime 
ranges  along  the  western  landscape  of  the  heart,  so  that, 
as  we  look,  sunsets  shall  revel  on  your  snowy  crests,  and 
your  long  shadows  shall  walk  from  sky  to  sky,  and  we 
shall  hear  at  burning  noon  or  quiet  evening  or  the  windy 
morn  the  calling  of  the  mountains,  "Let  us  journey 
together  to  the  sky." 


THE    ETERNAL    MOCNTAINS 


IT  IS  RAINING 


•  :i  %~^&ti* 


READY 

TO    RAIN 


IT  IS  RAINING 

It  is  raining.  All  the  sky  is 
gray  as  wood-ashes.  Clouds  are 
not  hung  in  streamers  as  on  an 
April  day,  blown  full  and  free 
by  the  wind,  but  one  lonely, 
endless  cloud  blots  out  the  en- 
tire blue.  Through  the  whole 
vault,  horizon  to  zenith  and 
back  to  horizon  again,  is  not  a 
leakage  of  sunlight;  no  crevice 
in  the  mist  through  which  a  spry 
sunbeam  may  slip;  no,  the  rain- 
cloud  owns  the  sky.  It  is  rain- 
ing. Winds  have  fallen  asleep 
or  gone  for  a  holiday.  For  days 
a  gale  has  been  blowing  the  dust 
till  the  sky  seemed  like  a  dusty  road. 
The  finer  gravels  spit  spitefully  in 
your  face.  Tree-tops  bent  steadily 
from  the  wind  as  if  to  shelter  them- 
selves. Every  loose  thing  took  to 
itself  wings.  The  tumble-weeds 
went  across  lots  as  if  running  a  race  for  a  prize  and  are 
piled  up  drift-deep  in  the  fence-corner  by  the  woods. 
People  said,  "The  wind  will  never  quit  blowing,"  which 
was  a  gratuitous  untruth;  for  the  wind  always  has  quit 
blowing  when  it  had  blown  to  its  content.  After  days  of 
this  wild  ownership  of  the  world   by  rioting  winds,  long 

251 


wisps  of  cloud  began  to  drift  far  up  in  the  sky  above  the 
reach  of  the  winds,  drifting  against  them  as  in  feminine 
independence  (perhaps  they  were  women  clouds),  then 
these  veils  thickened  slowly  with  no  approach  to  haste, 
like  a  woman  dressing  (they  are  female  clouds,  that  is 
certain),  until  one  evening,  along  the  skyline  at  the  west,  a 
cloud  black,  impenetrable,  tempestuous, foreboding,  lay  as 
if  anchored,  while  up  across  the  heavens  skulked  a  long, 
gray  shadow,  chilling  to  look  at  and  suggestive  of  rain. 
An  hour  later  the  sun  drifted  down  out  of  the  thick-hazed 
sky,  where  it  had  been  hanging,  like  a  blood-stained  shield, 
into  the  dull  gloom  of  the  black  cloud-bank;  and  there  was 
no  sunset  that  night.  The  sun  had  been  befogged  like  a 
traveler  caught  on  the  Manx  moors  in  the  mists. 

And  darkness  came  on  steadily.  There  were  no  stars 
anywhere;  and  the  violent  winds  folded  their  hands  in  quiet; 
and  the  air  began  to  smell  of  rain;  and  somebody  said 
aloud — it  was  a  child — "There's  a  rain-drop;"  and  he 
spoke  truly;  and  the  night  is  come;  and  the  slow  rain 
begins  its  placid  falling.  It  is  raining.  And  all  the  even- 
ing through,  all  the  night  through  into  dull  morning,  on 
to  noon,  now  into  afternoon,  it  is  raining. 


IT   IS   RAINING 


How  good  the  rain  is  to  hear,  and  how  good  the  rain 
is  to  feel!  Which  is  better,  I  can  not  tell.  They  are  twin 
perfections.  Such  as  think  being  out  in  the  rain  a  hard- 
ship are  to  be  pitied.  Birds  and  trees  and  flowers  stay 
out  in  the  rain,  and  like  it.  Why  not?  This  is  their  wash- 
day. Without  the  trouble  of  suds  and  rinsing,  they  grow 
clean.  They  are  frugal  about  washing  up.  Dirt  becomes 
them  as  it  does  a  child.  But  when  the  rain  comes,  then 
all  the  flowers  have  their  faces  washed  whether  or  no. 
Some  of  them  are  like  children  misliking  to  be  clean,  and 
fold  their  petals  up  and  hide  their  faces  from  the  wet 
fingers  of  the  rain;  but  all  this  childish  subterfuge  profits 
them  nothing.  Rain  washes  their  faces  whether  or  no, 
some  way  or  other.  I  do  not  profess  to  know  how.  This 
is  nature's  cleaning  day.  And  the  trees  all  stand  up, 
bravely  facing  the  rain,  and  feel  the  better  for  it, — be  it  a 
wild  ducking  like  the  spite  of  the  rain — for  even  rain  has 
its  tantrums  like  little  people — or  the  slow  gentle  fall  as 
the  drops  were  autumn  leaves  careless  of  falling.  Trees 
love  the  rain.  This  is  part  of  their  summer  gladness. 
They  are  never  glum  when  rain  comes  drifting  through 
their  multitudinous  leaves,  making  music.  And  when  the 
sun  breaks  out  on  a  brilliant  morning  after  rain,  how  the 
leaves  shine  like  a  schoolboy  with  morning  face  (as  quaint 
Will  Shakespeare  phrases  it).  Trees  are  good  friends  with 
the  rain.  And  did  you  never  see  a  robin  rejoice  in  the 
rain,  and  hold  up  his  crimson  waist-coat  (for  robins  are 
princely  dressers  like  Sir  Walter  Raleigh),  to  be  washed 
of  the  rain  into  a  brighter  crimson?  'T  is  a  sight  to  make 
one  sing;  and  it  does  make  the  robin  sing.  He  is  having 
his  best  clothes  laundered  without  a  cent  of  cost.  Slight 
wonder  if  he  is  tickled  over  that.  Some  of  the  rest  of  us 
would  be  too.  And  often  have  I  heard  him,  when  the 
rain  was  dousing  him  as  from  a  pitcher,  shout  out  in  clam- 
orous delight  with  his  liquid  note  full  of  mirth  and  jollity, 
*'0    goody-goody-goody-goody,    rain!       O    goody-goody- 

253 


goody!"  and  then  flirt  away  with  his  bright  coal,  of  a  breast 
flung  against  the  rainy  sky;  for  this  coal  not  a  drenching 
rain  even  can  put  out. 

Who  am  I  and  who  are  you  to  shun  the  rain  when 
trees  and  flowers  and  birds  are  made  merry  by  it, 
and  never  think  of  shelter?  No;  it  is  good  to  be  out  in 
the  rain,  and  the  bigger  the  rain  the  more  fun  to  be  out. 
When  from  your  chin  and  nose  and  ears  and  the  point  of 
every  lonesome  finger  you  possess,  and  from  your  solemn 
thumbs,  solemn  being  lonesome,  water  drips  as  from  a 
wood-house  eaves,  then  you  do  feel  good.  To  rush  for 
shelter  when  rain  comes  softly  down  may  do  for  the  well- 
dressed  and  the  fashionable;  but  for  us  who  wear  every- 
day clothes,  being  out  in  the  rain  is  fun.  We  have  no 
clothes  to  spoil,  and  we  will  not  wilt,  so  give  us  the  open 
field  or  prairie  or  woods,  the  leaking  woods,  and  then  let 
rain  work  at  its  job.  We  mean  business  just  as  much  as 
the  rain  does.  To  be  out  on  a  wide  stretch  of  prairie, 
green  beyond  any  word  of  comparison,  and  hear  the  steady 
falling  of  the  rain,  and  see  the  beaded  grasses  bend  and 
the  continuous  motion  of  the  quivering  spears,  and  the 
rain  keeps  falling  steadily,  and  we  be  wet  as  the  grass  and 
as  green, — what  a  lark  this  is!  How  good  to  be  out  in 
the  rain!  Or  to  be  in  the  woods  while  the  sound  of  the 
rain  drifts  through  the  tree-tops  its  steady  insistency  of 
music,  and  the  wet  leaves  hold  the  rain  as  long  as  they 
can,  and  then  spill  handfuls  of  water  down  on  your  pow 
as  if  to  drive  you  away  from  their  neighborhood,  or  a  gust 
of  wind  comes  to  show  itself  not  wholly  superannuate  nor 
passive,  and  the  trees  shake  a  whole  cloudful  of  rain  upon 
you,  drenching  you  to  the  skin!  They  scorn  us;  but  we 
are  good  woodsmen,  and  care  not  for  these  pranks  of  wind 
or  trees  or  rain.  To  be  truthful,  we  love  their  pranks. 
They  are  only  funning.  We  are  not  to  be  run  out  of 
these  woods;  and,  besides,  we  own  them.  And  shall  we 
be  driven  from  our  own  wilderness?     Can  we  not  stay  on 

254 


lands  deeded  to  us  and  those  deeds,  moreover,  recorded  at 
a  price?  Be  it  far  from  us  to  be  driven  from  our  own 
premises  by  the  whimsies  of  our  own  out-of-doors.  No; 
let  the  rain  and  the  winds  have  their  fun.  We  will  have 
ours.  We  like  jokes  too.  We  are  clad  in  bark  as  well  as 
these  trees,  and  can  shed  water.  Let  the  rain  come  faster, 
harder,  increasing  from  drizzle  to  torrent.  Let  it  rain. 
Selah!  And  to  walk  through  drenching  undergrowth  of 
the  woods,  when  every  green  blade  and  shrub,  leaf,  and 
wild  gooseberry-leaf  and  fruit,  are  sagging  in  pendants  of 
lustrous  diamonds,  and  the  moss  on  fallen  trees  shines  up 
like  a  green  flower,  and  the  flowers  stand  in  sweet  array 
with  clean  garments  and  faces,  and  to  hear  the  blue  jay 
cry  with  raucous  voice,  "What  are  you  doing  here?"  and 
to  lunge  through  all  this,  and  come  to  the  pasture  where 
cattle  keep  browsing  when  the  rain  is  falling,  and  so  getting 
drink  thrown  in  with  their  dinner;  and  they  will  stop  and 
look  at  you  with  solemn  eyes  asking,  "Who  are  you  any- 
way, and  why  are  you  out  in  the  rain?"  And  then,  with- 
out a  touch  of  hospitality,  they 
are  eating  with  never  a  thought 
of  asking  you  to  share  in  their 
repast.  But  to  see  a  little  calf 
chewing  its  cud  in  the  rain!  Aye, 
that  is  comfort.  Ruminating 
is  the  dictionary  word,  but  chew- 
ing cud  is  the  cow's  word,  and 
I  stick  to  the  vernacular  and  the 
cow.  I  am  a  plain  man.  Doubtless  the  cow  is  the 
original  tobacco-chewer,  but  she  never  smokes,  and 
despises  cigarettes;  but  chewing  is,  beyond  a  doubt, 
settled  habit  with  her.  I  have  seen  cows  mid- 
Atlantic,  the  wind  blowing  guns,  deck  drenched  under  feet 
of  brackish  water,  and  the  wide-eyed,  meadow-breathed 
cows  chewing,  caring  for  none  of  these  things.  Yes;  I  see 
little  show  of  reforming  such  inveterate  chewers,  though  I 

255 


THE    CARELESS 

CATTLE 


will  not  put  it  beyond  some  of  our  reforming  friends  to 
attempt  the  job.  But  I  will  none  of  their  folly.  I  like  to 
see  cows  chew.  It  is  better  that  they  endlessly  chew  than 
that  they  endlessly  talk;  and  I  hold  to  the  lesser  evil. 
When  cows  chew  incessantly,  and  rain-clouds  rain  without 
intermission,  this  is  industry  and  devotion  to  duty.  It  is 
raining. 

However  foolish  this  remark  may  seem,  I  am  compelled 
to  say  that  when  the  rain  hints  at  quitting,  I  grow  nervous. 
I  want  no  quitting  yet.  Rain  suits  me.  I  want  its  music 
to  continue  and  its  downpour  to  proceed.  Not  but  I 
know  that  rain  ought  to  quit  sometimes;  but  I  like  its 
continuance,  and  have  ridden  all  day  along  Scotch  moors 
with  never  an  umbrella,  the  cold  rain  spilling  steadily  on 
me  as  discharging  a  religious  duty,  and  water  taking  its 
leisure  way  down  my  spinal  column,  and  bringing  to  me 
only  an  aqueous  delight  in  the  adaptation  of  myself  to  my 
environment. 

And  lying  in  a  hay-mow  on  the  scented  hay,  with  roof 
only  a  foot  or  two  above  your  head,  and  the  rain  patter- 
ing softly  on  the  shingles,  what  can  be  conjured  up  with 
more  of  the  open  fields  in  it?  The  prairies  under  you, 
the  grim  skies  over  you,  and  the  liquor  of  the  rainy  day 
drugging  your  sense  of  work  as  with  a  healthful  narcotic, 
and  the  whole  world  shut  away  from  you  by  the  downpour 
of  the  rain,  and  the  rain  on  the  roof  sweeter  than  orches- 
tras!     O  heart,  say,  it  is  raining. 

And  to  stand  at  an  open  door  and  listen  to  the  dripping 
from  the  eaves.  Water-spouts  are  a  utilitarian  waste. 
They  savor  not  of  poetry,  but  belong  to  an  inode  of  the 


GETTING    READY    FOR    RAIN 


practical.  Give  me  the  dripping  of  the  roof — the  slow, 
steady,  insistent,  delicious  drip,  drip,  drip;  and  if  a  rain- 
barrel  be  anywhere  about,  the  dropping  is  the  very  spirit 
of  music,  like  bell-ringers  from  the  Alps  with  diminutive 
silver  bells.  The  drip  from  eaves  at  night  is  best.  Then 
open  the  door,  blow  out  the  light, 
sit  in  an  old  chair,  and  thrust  hand 
out  to  get  a  share  of  the  dripping 
from  the  roof,  and  then  drift  back 
to  dreams.  The  dull,  dark  skies, 
the  whine  of  an  occasional  spurt  of 
wind,  the  steady  splash,  splash  of 
the  eaves  as  if  it  were  God's 

"  Keeping  time,  in  a  sort  of  runic  rhyme, 
With  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  bells." 

And  a  rainy  day  for  reading.     A 
good  book  and  a  rainy  day !     What 
a  conjunction  of  happy  stars.    When 
I  first  read  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities" 
it  was  so.      Sydney  Carton  and  the 
echoing    footsteps,    and   Lucie    Ma- 
nette   and  her  white-haired,  Bastile-bruised 
old  father,  and  Evremond,  and  the  beating 
of  the  Bastile  down,  and  the  frightful  whine 
of  the  guillotine,  and  Sydney  Carton  learn-      RAm  0n  the  roof 
ing  to  be  a  man  because  of  love  and  his 
"It  is  better  so," — in  the  rain  and  near  the  roof.     What  a 
day  to  read  that  was!     I  shall  have  memories  of  it  forever, 
I  doubt  not.     All  day  long  the  rain  fell  steadily,  not  a  hint 
of  stopping,  and  "The  Tale  of  Two  Cities"  I  met  for  the 
first  time,  though  not  for  the  last.    Glooms  were  the  atmos- 
phere for  that  book,  and  to  this  day  when  I  take  it  up,  as  I 
often  do,  I  can  hear  the  rain  upon  the  windows  dripping 
wearily.     A  book  and  a  rainy  day. 

But  night  with  rain  upon  the  roof  is  positive  poetry. 
257 


Pan  with  his  reed  is  no  myth  then.  The  rain  on  the  roof 
is  poet-laureate  for  the  lonely.  When  I  was  a  lad  I  slept 
in  a  room  apart  from  the  house  where  the  family  dwelt, 
and  above  the  roof  were  arms  of  gnarled  oaks.  I  did  not 
know  it  then,  although  I  know  it  now,  that  this  was  better 
than  a  palace  chamber  for  such  as  love  to  lie  and  dream. 
I  was  alone  with  the  night  and  the  winds  and  the  rain. 
How  I  lay  awake  and  dreamed!  I  knew  not  the  world. 
My  hands  were  hard  with  handling  hoe  and  plow;  and 
poetry  was  a  thing  I  knew  barely  by  name;  but  the  rain 
on  the  roof  was  there.  I  listened  to  it,  and  my  heart 
drank  in  its  music.  Its  haunting  loneliness  knew  to  make 
me  weep,  I  not  knowing  why  the  weeping.  God  was  hav- 
ing a  word  in  private  with  me,  though  I  truly  knew  not 
who  was  talking.  It  was  raining, — that  was  all.  Great 
loneliness  ingulfed  me,  but  I  feared  not  the  depths  of  this 
tideless  sea.  The  rain  falling,  falling,  I  grew  to  look  for 
with  a  hungry  heart;  and  years  after,  I  knew  this  as  the 
summons  of  poetry.      Riley  heard  this  rain,  and  whispered, 

"    The  rain  above,  and  a  mother's   love, 
And  God's  companionship," 


RAINING  YET 


though  the  mother's  love  was  a  mercy  I  never  knew.  A 
poet  has  caught  the  music  of  the  rain  upon  the  roof.  The 
rain  dripped  into  his  heart  heart— Coates  Kinney's  "Rain 
on  the  Roof:" 


When  the  humid  shadows  hover 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres, 
And  the  melancholy  darkness 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 
What  a  joy  to  press  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage  chamber  bed, 
And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead  ! 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 

Has  an  echo  in  the  heart, 
And  a  thousand  dreamy  fane 

Into  busy  being  start  ; 
And  a  thousand  recollections 

Weave  their  air-threads  into  woof 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

There  is  naught  in  art's  bravuras 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spel 
In  the  spirit  's  pure,  deep  fountain; 

Whence  the  holy  passions  swell, 
As  that  melody  of  nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain, 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain." 


And  now,  a  man  grown,  I  haunt  a  garret  where  I  may 
hear  the  rain  upon  the  roof.  I  am  not  free  from  its  haunt- 
ing yet.  That  haunting  will  go  with  me  till  I  die.  I  must 
have  the  drift  of  the  rain  and  the  moan  of  the  wind,  the 
pathetic  grieving  as  for  sins  forgiven  indeed  of  God,  but 
unforgotten  of  the  sinning  soul;  the  weird  wistfulness,  like 
eyes  that  look  for  a  desolated  hearth.  I  must  hear  the 
grieving  of  the  autumn  rain.  It  is  part  of  the  literature 
of  my  life,  without  which  I  stand  an-hungered. 

259 


It  is  raining.  Gray  clouds  are  anchored  in  the  sky; 
the  raindrops  wrinkle  down  the  window-panes;  the  voices 
of  rain  are  in  the  skies,  indescribable  for  sweetness.  A 
thing  not  to  be  put  into  any  words,  nor  capable  of  having 
music  written  to  interpret  its  melody,  only  to  those  who 
have  heard  and  loved  the  rainfall  and  the  gray,  grim  sky, 
to  such  alone  will  this  saying  be  a  phrase  to  conjure  with, 
"It  is  raining." 


BIRD'S-NESTING 


a  bird's  nest  in  bloom 


THIS    NEST  IS    TAKEN 


cept  hen's   eggs).      I 


BIRD'S-NESTING 

Think  you  this  sounds  wicked?  Judge 
not,  as  says  the  Scripture.  Wait 
a  spell.  I  think  it  one  of  the 
bounden  duties,  one  of  the 
set  proprieties  of  the  year,  to  go 
after  birds'  nests.  This  habit  set 
on  me  as  a  boy;  and  I  have  it  yet. 
In  my  quest  is  no  acrimony,  no  tinge 
of  brutality.  I  seek  no  eggs  (ex- 
steal  no  birdlings,  but  am  tender- 
hearted as  any  girl  toward  all  living  things.  Murder  is 
not  one  of  my  propensions.  When  a  snake  crosses  my 
path,  or  I  his,  I  neither  chase  nor  kill  him.  He  has  his 
life,  I  mine.  He  does  not  harm  me:  I  will  not  harm  him. 
Albeit  I  confess  to  having  an  antagonistic  feeling  toward 
him  for  his  behavior  to  my  ancestress,  mother  Eve.  That 
was  both  an  unchivalrous  and  a  scurvy  trick  he  played 
her.  Manifestly  the  snake  is  no  gentleman,  or  he  had  not 
deliberately  decoyed  an  unsuspecting  woman.  The  snake 
is  repugnant  to  me  because  of  his  breach  in  gentility.  But 
I  do  not  molest  him.  Let  him  take  his  snaky  way 
through  the  grasses.  I  gladly  give  a  caterpillar  a  lift  on 
his  road  to  his  silken  palace,  there  to  wait  till  God  shall 
send  him  forth  no  longer  a  worm  to  crawl  on  the  pave- 
ment, but  a  butterfly  to  dance  on  laughing  wings  through 
summer  skies.  I  would  not  harm  wasps,  though  their 
ways  are  not  to  my  liking.  To  keep  the  major  part  of 
one's  body  for  war  is  neither  religion  nor  courtesy.  How- 
ever, the  wasp  thinks  himself  a   consequential  personage; 

265 


and  if  he  leaves  me  alone,  I  leave  him  alone.  In  my  blood 
is  no  Ishmaelite  tendency.  My  hand  is  against  nobody 
and  no  creature  save  the  mosquito,  who  is  my  hereditary 
foe.  He  is  always  armed  to  the  teeth;  and  an  armed  neu- 
trality is  all  a  body  can  have  by  way  of  truce  with  this  out- 
rageous cannibal. 

But  birds,  I  like  them  all.  Even  the  cuckoo,  too  lazy 
to  build  a  nest  for  herself  or  sit  on  her  own  eggs,  her  I 
will  enjoy,  because  hers  is  one  of  the  early  voices  of  Spring; 
and  the  mellow  "cuck-oo,  cuck-oo,"  is  pervasive  melody 
to  my  ears.  The  cow-bird,  fat,  gluttonous,  though  I  love 
not,  I  endure.  He  has  wings.  That  saves  his  bacon  in 
my  estimation.  Winged  things  compel  my  admiration. 
I  envy  their  covenant  with  the  skies;  and  when  they  drop 
like  a  withered  leaf  from  the  blue  uplands  of  air,  I  make  my 
obeisance  as  to  the  dusk  with  its  stars.  No,  I  am  no  ma- 
rauder. The  bushwacker  instinct  is  not  in  my  blood,  though 
my  ancesters  were  of  the  viking  brood.  I  go  bird's-nest- 
ing as  I  say  my  prayers,  with  a  humble  heart,  but  with 
much  gladness. 

October  is  my  pet  month  for  bird's-nesting;  and  does 
not  this   exonerate  me  from  cruel  intent?     Are  not  nests 


I    HEAR    A    CATBIRD   CALL 


empty,  and  are  not  the  birdies  gone,  and  are  they  not  flown 
to  some  radiant  land  of  summer  unknowning  leaf-fall? 
The  nests  are  crowded  now,  not  with  diminutive  eggs,  nor 
yet  with  garrulous,  hungry-voiced  small-fry,  but  with  with- 
ered leaves  lying  sedate  and  silent,  voice- 
less as  the  sleeping  dead?  No;  I  profess  /  i 
this  is  no  viciousness  nor  any  malice,  only 
a  trick  of  boyhood  not  spilled 
from  my  soul.  Please  God,  may 
I  keep  my  boyhood  while  I  live, 
nor  lose  it  when  I  die.  This  is 
a  belonging  I  must  not  be  quit 
of.  It  is  part  of  my  permanent 
luggage;  scuffed  with  travel  and 
scarred  with  many  stickers,  like 
grips    which    have    seen    foreign  one  lone  leaf 

parts,  but   my    luggage;    scuffed 

with  bad  usage  I  deny  not,  but  my  luggage  still,  to  which 
I  stick  as  I  would  to  a  child's  hand  on  a  midnight  road. 
Boys  yet!     The  month  for  bird's-nesting  is  come. 

But  any  time  is  a  good  time  for  bird's-nesting.  Sum- 
mer is  good  if  a  body  has  settled  morals  in  such  outdoor 
affairs.  To  go  and  break  up  families  is  never  good.  To 
go  and  see  families  is  always  good,  though  not  always  op- 
portune. It  does  no  bird  harm  for  you  or  me  to  spy  out 
her  nest  and  pry  around  in  neighborly  inquisitiveness  about 
her  domestic  establishment,  if  we  are  honest  folk  who  tend 
to  our  own  business  and  know  where  neighborly  nosing 
around  stops  and  intrusion  begins.  For  me,  I  am  upright 
in  character  and  genteel  in  behavior.  To  tear  a  bird's 
house  down,  or  carry  off  her  eggs  or  her  brood,  is  not 
neighborly,  gentlemanly,  nor  righteous.  Such  conduct 
violates  all  codes  save  that  of  buccaneers.  But  to  go  in 
Spring  or  Summer,  and  prod  around  in  thickets  or  big 
trees  or  orchards  or  under  bridges  where  swallows  build 
and  phoebes  nest,  or  climb  trees  to    take  a  glad  peep  at 

267 


eggs  in  a  nest  yet  warm  with  the  heat  lent  by  a  wee  bird 
breast;  to  look,  and  go  on  about  your  business,  and  let 
birds  go  on  about  theirs,— such  conduct  interferes  with 
no  code  of  morals.  And  if  the  nest  chance  to  be  one 
which  for  its  beauty  or  rarity,  novelty  or  intricacy,  you 
care  to  be  owner  of,  mark  where  you  saw  it,  and  when 
bird  and  family  have  moved  out,  then  you  may  return  and 
take  the  dainty  thing  you  looked  upon  to  care  to  possess, 
and  violate  no  commandment  of  any  decalogue.  To  go 
snooping  around  in  nature's  dooryard  or  pasture  is  legiti- 
mate and  commendable.  Snooping  generally  is  a  poor 
enough  occupation;  but  with  Nature,  because  of  her  excess 
of  reticence,  this  is  the  one  way  of  finding  out  things. 
"Blessed  are  the  snoopers  around,"  is  one  of  nature's 
Beatitudes.  The  nosers  around  are  such  as  become  finders- 
out.  Nature  never  tells  anybody  anything.  All  who  have 
found  out  are  those  who  hung  around,  and,  maybe,  heard 
Nature  talking  in  her  sleep  or  to  herself  while  wide  awake, 
not  knowing  anybody  was  near,  or  saw  her  hiding  things 
or  finding  things,  as  you  may  see  some  squirrel  looking 
for  nuts  themselves  have  hid  away.  I  must  say  that  Nature 
puts  a  premium  on  snooping  and  eavesdropping.  The 
Audubons  and  Wilsons  and  Agassi/s  were  hangers  around 
as  bad  as  boys  at  a  country  grocery.  You  can  not  find 
things  out  by  driving  up  as.  for  a  party,  and,  with  polished 


shoes  and  looking-glass  shirt-front  and  cutaway  coat,  white 
kerchief  drawn  daintily  across  your  immaculate  linen,  and 
high  hat  shiny  as  your  shoes,  go  along  the  sidewalk  and 
get  in  an  elegant  trap,  and  thus  find  out  Nature's  goings 
on.  No,  O  no;  you  must  put  on  your  old  clothes,  roll  up 
your  trousers,  tie  a  handkerchief  around  your  neck,  get  a 
stick  out  of  the  woods  (a  dead  one  is  best),  and  hike  out. 
Do  n't  hurry.  Take  no  watch.  You  can  tell  twelve,  noon, 
by  your  stomach;  you  can  tell  night  by  your  sunset, 
morning  by  the  crowing  of  the  roosters,  and  night  by  the 
witching  stars.     Then  out  across  lots. 

What  fun  I  had  one  May-day  in  Western  Kansas,  when 
the  sun  shone  hot,  and  the  skies  were  burnished,  and  things 
were  growing  on  the  run,  and  the  day  decoyed  fishermen 
out  by  wagon-loads!  Everybody  looked  fishy.  Every  creek 
bend  had  its  pocket  crowded  with  fisher  folks.  And  I  went 
out,  ostensibly  to  fish,  authentically  to  hunt  birds'  nests. 
So  I  prodded  my  pole  into  a  moist  bank,  let  the  cork  nod 
on  the  stream,  and  went  on  about  my  business.  What  hours 
I  spent!  I  leaned  out  over  the  stream  to  get  a  last-year's 
nest  swinging  to  a  half-submerged  willow — the  nest  as  good 
as  new  because  the  Winter  had  been  rainless,  and  not  a 
blade  of  grass  of  which  the  dainty  house  is  woven  was 
rotted.  Every  rafter  and  beam  and  sill  and  window-frame 
in  place  just  as  its  master  and  mistress  had  left  it  to  go 
South  to  spend  the  Winter  with  relatives.  Well,  out  into 
the  water  I  swung  at  the  end  of  a  hooked  stick,  wherewith 
I  hooked  me  onto  the  tree  along  shore,  and  I  leaning  and 
craning  and  the  nest-bush  nearly  in  reach  and  not  quite, 
and  I  out  of  reach  of  shore  and  nest,  until  I  called  an  idle 
fisherman  who  had  neither  fish  nor  bite,  to  save  my  nest 
and  me  from  a  sousing  in  the  stream,  which,  while  unable 
to  furnish  fish  for  the  hooks,  was  still  qualified  to  give 
a  good  ducking  to  any  man  whose  hold  on  a  willow  let  go 
and  was  soused  in  the  water.  Fishermen  are  good  for 
something;  i.  e.,  to   save  birds'-nesters  from  a  drenching. 

269 


HERE  SWALLOWS  SKIM 


"Honor  to  whom  honor,"  is  my  motto.  But  what  fun! 
How  I  pitied  the  poor  fishermen,  who  caught  nothing,  not 
even  a  cold.  I  caught  both  nibble  and  nest.  And  how  the 
birds  sang,  and  how  the  fresh  green  of  the  leaves  glistened 
and  shook,  and  how  the  sky  grew  cobalt  over  me,  and  hew 
the  warm  south  wind  laved  me  as  I  had  been  a  bit  of 
prairie!  Maybe  it  thought  I  was,  but  no  matter.  It  is 
good  to  be  green :  we  green  things  grow.  And  I  came 
upon  a  mourning  dove  upon  her  nest,  with  apologies  for 
calling  that  trick  a  nest.  Usually  the  dove  is  a  sorry  house- 
keeper. Truth  compels  me,  or  I  would  not  say  this. 
Nothing  else  could  induce  me.  A  few  sticks  jumbled 
together,  that  is  all.  Why,  who  could  think,  prior  to 
knowing  that  so  very  dainty  a  bird  as  this  mourning  dove, 
so  modest  in  demeanor,  and  modestly  but  beautifully  ap- 
pareled in  ash-colored  silk  touched  as  the  sun  glints  on  it 
with  opalescent  flame, — who  could  think  that  so  elegantly 
and  femininely  attired  a  lady  would  be  slovenly  in  her 
housekeeping?     However,  the  only  way  we  can  tell  about 

270 


any  woman's  housekeeping  is  by  seeing  her  house,  not  her. 
The  mourning  dove  needs  to  attend  a  school  which  teaches 
how  to  make  home  attractive.  But  bethink  me  I  do  recall 
that  this  same  Mrs.  Dove  is  a  gadabout.  She  is  swift  of 
wing.  She  likes  to  be  on  the  street.  If  she 
were  a  woman  she  would  spend  her  day  at  clubs 
or  at  counters.  But  Mrs.  Dove  is  lovely  any- 
way, housekeeping  or  no  housekeeping.  And 
this  day  I  found  her  sitting  at  home,  for  a 
wonder,  and  on  her  eggs.  She  looked  at  me 
as  thinking  I  did  not  see  her.  She  judged  from  my 
looks  that  I  did  not  know  much  (she  was  a  foolish 
bird),  and  so  I  walked  straight  on,  and  she  sat,  sit, 
or  set  (I  do  not  know  which,  but  am  positive  she 
did  one  of  the  three,  and  am  not  positive  she  did 
not  do  all  three)  while  I  came  within  a  foot  of  her 
unblinking  eves,  when,  with  commotion   and  a  whir-  THE  mourning 

b      J      .  i        •      u  dove's  nest 

ring  of  her  wings  like  a  north-wind  s  moan,  she 
rushed  past  me.  There  was  her  nest,  not  built  out  of  the 
customary  confusion  of  sticks  tousled  together  as  if  they 
had  rained  down  when  a  wind  was  blowing  hard,  but  made 
of  hay,  prairie-hay,  blades  of  grass  with  the  green  of 
Summer  not  vanished, — for  the  hay  was  well-cured  and 
dinted  into  breast-shape  by  the  bird's  bosom — a  few  wisps 
laid  in  the  depression  of  a  decayed  trunk  broken  off  where 
another  trunk  branched  out;  and  in  the  slight  depression 
of  prairie  hay  two  white  eggs  shined  up  at  me  like  a  sur- 
prise. They  were  good  to  see.  I  saw  them;  had  my  grati- 
fication of  eyes  and  heart,  touched  nothing  (I  have  man- 
ners), went  away  whistling.  I  had  a  tune  at  heart,  and  it 
had  to  have  vent.  And  the  dove  came  winging  back  with 
slight  delay,  to  find  the  nest  intact  and  her  eggs  and  nest 
yet  warm,  and  was  satisfied. 

And  one  day  in  August,  by  a  northern  lake,  I  swung  out 
for  a  day  of  bird's-nesting.  You  never  fail  to  get  what  you 
want  on  such  a  foray  as  this.    Bird's-nests  you  are  not  likely 

271 


to  get  when  you  go  into  a  forest  in  the  Summer.  Then 
it  is  next  to  impossible  to  find  nests.  You  may  stumble 
on  to  them  if  your  stumbler  is  good,  but  that  is  all. 
Nests  are  so  few  in  the  woods,  and  specially  in  Northern 
woods  where  pines  grow  in  profusion.  Though  you  see 
never  a  nest,  you  find  what  you  go  for.  You  and  the  out- 
doors meet.  You  and  the  sky  grow  chummy.  You  and 
birds  eye  each  other  and  talk  back.  You  and  freedom 
keep  company.  Alone  with  the  world  of  waters,  woods, 
wind,  birds,  sky, — what  a  day  such  a  day  is  anyhow!  So 
out  I  sauntered,  a  copy  of  "As  You  Like  It"  in  my  pocket, 
to  have  the  Forest  of  Arden  to  lounge  in  if  I  wanted  to, 
though  I  needed  it  not.  I  was  walking  in  Arden  all  the 
bonnie  day.  Out  I  sauntered.  My  shoes  were  old  (they 
were  all  I  had),  my  trousers  were  ditto,  my  feet  frisky  as 
became  a  boy's  going  to  the  woods,  the  sky  blue,  the  air 
balmy,  everything  just  right,  and  I  like  everything,  and 
outward  bound.  I  strike  across  a  sheep-field  to  the  margin 
of  a  river,  come  to  the  marge  where  the  long,  lush  grasses 
grow  and  drowse,  scare  up  a  crane,  which,  with  mighty 
soaring  of  his  wings,  lifted  his  body  into  the  sky,  where  it 
floated  off  as  disinclined  to  go  far,  the  fishing  was  so  good; 
then  I  tramped  down  in  the  wet  grasses  just  enough  to  get 
my  feet  wet  enough  to  show  I  was  not  insulated  like  a 
telegraph  wire, — a  bird's-nester  must  be  en  rapport  with  the 
earth — marched  along  the  springy  river  edge,  which  an- 
swered to  my  springy  step  in  a  way  to  make  a  city  man 
tired  all  the  rest  of  his  mortal  life  of  asphalt  pavements, 
felt  good,  saw  the  boy  and  girl  out  boating  on  the  river, 
but  not  making  much  headway  with  their  boating — for  you 
can  not  do  two  things  at  once  well — and  then  I  edge  from 
the  river  out  woodward.  A  boy  comes  driving  cows,  driv- 
ing some,  sooking  others,  and  him  I  asked  if  he  knew 
where  bird's-nests  were,  to  which  interlocution  he  gave 
succinct  reply  "Hau?"  This  boy  will  never  come  to  much. 
The  country  boy  who  does  not  know  where  a  bird's-nes- 


is,  lacks  in  sagacity.  He  will  remain  small  potatoes. 
How  good  the  air  is,  not  a-blowing  but  a-breathing. 
Nature  somewhere  is  herself,  taking  a  good  breath.  Let 
her.  I  walk  among  more  wild-cherry  trees  than  I  had  ever 
found  in  one  locality,  and  their  bark  is  like  the  glow  of  a 
sardine-stone.  Wild-cherry  bark  is  beautiful  to  see  and 
feel;  and  wild-cherry  leaves  are  dainty  as  any  leaf  of  the 
wood,  and  wild  cherries  are  as  if  the  trees  were  hung  with 
precious  sards  till  the  tree  appears  a  display  of  jewels  in 
color  like  a  flame.  One  tree  I  saw  green  and  tall  and 
widespreading,  and  hung  full  of  fruit,  and  trailed  over  by 
a  wild  grapevine  hung  to  big  green  clusters.  What  a  thing 
of  delight  that  thing  of  beauty  was, — the  sard-colored 
cherry,  and  the  steady  green  of  the  grape,  and  the  flash  of 
the  cherry's  vivid  green  leaf,  and  the  graceful  loll  of  the 
grape-leaf  with  its  less  striking  green,  and  the  wind  from 
the  lake  on  whose  margin  the  tree  hung,  making  leaves  and 
fruits  undulant  as  rocked  by  a  gentle  wave. 


THE   FOREST    OF   ARDEN 


Across  an  upland  leading  from  river  to  woods,   birch- 
trees    were   numerous.     White   birch  was  there   in  plenty. 
What    fascination   is  in  these  trees!     Brown  birch-bark  is 
so  beautiful  as  that  we   can  neither   paint  nor  describe  it. 
It  must  be  seen,  and  seen  again,  and  loved,  and  then  you 
want  to  see  it  again,  and  must.     How  often  have  I  watched 
these    trunks    sardonyx    in    color,    with    the    brown    limbs 
glancing  out  like  fire,  and  heard  the  wind  whisper  to  the 
leaves    as    in   love    accents!     Into  every   tree   I   looked   or 
prodded,    for    the    bird's-nester    must    have    a    stick.      It 
expedites  discovery,  thrusting  limbs  aside,  and  so  revealing 
the  hidden  house.     So  I  hunted  tree  and  thicket,  seldom 
finding  any  nest,  but  always  finding  something.     You  never 
can  miss  when  in  this  beautiful  occupation.     When  a  bird 
springs  from  a  bush  or  thicket  of  fern,   and   seems  likely 
to  live  in  that  special  neighborhood,   I   nose   around   right 
manfully.     The   way  led  across  an  old   forsaken  apple-or- 
chard,   and,    seeing    a    robin    in    an    ancient    apple-tree,    I 
drew  near  and  found,  as  I  surmised,   a   blue-bird's  nest  in 
a  knot-hole.     Well    done,  you    bird    nurtured    in    the    blue 
sky;  this  was  most  worthy  of  you.     An  apple-tree  and  a 
bluebird  are  worthy  companions.     Some   bee-martins  were 
cutting   up   didoes  in  the  open,  turning  somersaults,   and 
all  for  their  fun  and   not  for  mine.     Is  n't  it  good  to  see 
people  acting  up  not  to  be    seen  of   any   one,    but   solely 
because  they  are  frisky?     In  the  brakes  a  nest  was  found, 
place  and  nest  both  dainty.     This  does  not  often  happen. 
Birds    seldom    build    in    weeds    or    growing    corn    or    any 
annual.      Birds   begin    business   before    plants   have   begun 
business    long    enough   to   have    afforded   chance   for  bird 
housekeeping.      But    in  this  brake  this  nest  was  set  right 
cozily,    and    was    right    good    to    see.      I    walked    across 
the   upland    scarred   with  old    pine-trees    and    shaped    into 
black  monuments  by  fire,  sturdy  with  their  old-time  erect- 
ness,    in   bleak  loneliness,   like    black   basalt    memorials  of 
what  they  had  been,  each  one  graven,  as  I  fancied,  with  an 

276 


"In  Memoriam."  Birch-trees  flouted  their  arms  out;  and 
on  a  large  patch  of  meadow  wild  wintergreen  grew  in  rich 
profusion,  so  that  the  air  was  scented  with  its  breath. 
Wild  blackberries  are  just  turning  from  red  to  black;  and 
one  bramble  swings  out  a  spray  of  red  berries  on  one 
limb,  and  a  spray  of  milk-white  flowers  on  another.  I 
prod  around  everywhere,  looking  for  birds'  nests;  finding 
very  few,  but  finding  plenty  of  delight  and  air  and  glad- 
ness and  sense  of  freedom  and  genial  foliage  and  new  land- 
scapes at  almost  every  turn.  In  the  glowing  sunlight, 
pine-trees  are  standing  afar,  bleak  even  at  Summer  noon; 


A   SUMMER   NEST 


and  as  I  pass  at  last  under  them,  the  same  old  wonder  of 
music  meets  my  ear  and  heart  as  when  first  I  heard  the 
lonely  musings  of  the  pine.  I  saunter  on  till  I  stand  on  a 
long  ledge  washed  with  sunshine,  and  sung  to  by  vagabond 
winds,  laughed  at  by  birds  whose  nests  I  have  failed  to 
find,  but  in  my  turn  laughing  at  what  I  had  not  failed  to 
find;  namely,  the  art  of  enjoying  the  day,  the  unhooking 
the  muddy  traces  of  care,  the  claiming  kinship  with  the 
wild.  O,  bird's-nesting  at  any  season  of  the  year  is  good, 
my  heart!  It  turns  ennui  out  of  doors,  and  lets  in  the 
delight  of  living.  This  day  I  heard  a  new  song  of  a  bird; 
his  nest  I  could  not  find,  but  his  song  I  found,  and  carry 
it  away  in  my  heart.  All  days  are  good  for  bird's-nesting; 
and  this  is  one  of  all  days. 

277 


But  October  is  the  bird's-nester's  month,  because  then 
sunlight  lies  quiet  yet  glad  upon  the  hills,  and  falls  quietly 
like  falling  leaves  upon  the  stream,  and  sifts  through  the 
flitting  leaves,  and  seems  to  have  soaked  the  cottonwood 
leaves  with  its  warm  golden  light,  though  not  even  this 
drench  of  sunshine  on  them  can  quiet  their  rainfall  which 
patters  at  every  gust  of  wind.  Cottonwoods  hold  perpet- 
ual rain  as  even  clouds  do  not.  But  the  cottonwoods  have 
their  leaves  thinned  out  by  the  shears  of  Fall,  so  that  nests 
are  easily  discoverable  in  their  sprawling  branches.  At 
this  time  of  year,  late  October  or  early  November,  every 
bird's  house  is,  so  to  say,  out  of  doors.  Concealment  is 
a  thing  forgotten.  Where  no  need  of  hiding  is,  why 
should  secrecy  be  maintained?  Nature  does  not  waste 
energies.  Her  modesty  is  a  thing  of  sense;  and  when  the 
need  of  it  is  ended,  her  modesty  abates.  I  love  to  go 
along  the  stream,  and  crawl  through  the  thickets  where 
Winter  beckons,  and  mosey  along  where  the  woods  hold 
up  their  wan  faces  against  the  tender  light  with  a  touch  of 
pathos  indescribable  on  them,  and  make  my  tour  of  dis- 
covery of  birds'  nests.  In  Spring  this  woods  would  be  a 
hidden  land  so  far  as  birds'  houses  are  concerned.  Birds' 
voices,  with  their  easy  ecstasy  and  caroling  and  youth 
eternally  renewed, — these  would  be  prevalent,  making 
music  like  a  hundred  violins  played  on  by  skilled  musicians; 
but  when  the  important  mother  sits  wide-eyed,  with  an  air 
of  owning  the  world  because  her  eggs  advance  toward- 
feathers,  finding  nests  would  be  a  trick  hard  to  do.  Birds 
do  not  tell  their  secrets  glibly.  They  are  seemingly  a 
garrulous  company,  eager  to  tell  everything,  but  in  reality 
holding  secret  the  one  thing  you  wish  to  know.  But  now 
this  mother-bird  is  gone,  and  the  father-bird  puts  his  lute 
away,  tired  of  blowing  his  sweet  staccatos,  and  the  eggs 
are  feathered  out  and  singing,  and  the  shining  leaves  are 
tired  of  being  unpaid  awnings,  and  the  birds'  nests  are  in 
the  open. 

278 


It    is   time    for    bird's-nesting.     My   feet   will  not   stay 
under  the  study  table;   and  my  ringers  drop  the  pencil  in 
a  nerveless  fashion;  and  the  skies,  seen  through  a  network 
of  branches  with  a  bird's  nest  swung    here  and 
there,  obscure  the  page  of  my  book  so   that   I 
see   it  no  longer.     Without  doubt  the  season  is 
come  for  this  parson  to  be  bird's-nesting.     Comi 
hands,  and  feet,  and  eyes,  and  thought,  and  heart; 
come,  hurry:    let    us  go    to    the    woods    bird's- 
nesting.     Hurrah!  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  boy! 

I  will  put  on  old  clothes  for  this  hilarious  busi- 
ness. Not  that  any  of  my  clothes  are  dangerously 
new  or  superlatively  fine.  I  am  no  dude.  And, 
besides,  I  like  old  clothes  better  than  new.  I  am 
acquainted  with  them,  and  they  with  me.  The 
trouble  with  new  clothes  is,  they  have  their  own 
creases,  which  are  straight,  and  in  straight  lines  is  nothing 
artistic.  I  like  clothes  when  they  have  accommodated 
creases  to  the  sinuosities  of  my  anatomy;  when  they  lean 
on  my  stooped  shoulders,  and  the  trousers  bag  at  the 
knees  and  wrinkle  at  the  shoetops,  then  trousers  get  ac- 
climated to  my  figure,  and  we  become  good  friends.  I 
dislike  laying  them  aside,  although  at  times  I  have  been 
walking  along  the  street  and  have  seen  my  garments 
walking  along  on  another  person.  The  head  of  our  house 
has  evidently  decided  that  it  is  time  for  me  to  change  my 
coat — as  the  snake  does.  But  I  confess  to  a  homesick  feel- 
ing on  seeing  my  clothes  on  another  man;  not  that  the  poe: 
clothes  care,  but  I  care.  Not  that  I  am  not  generous  with 
my  old  things,  but  we  have  had  such  times  together,  and 
we  knew — my  clothes  and  I — each  other's  ways  and  oddi- 
ties; whereas  every  new  suit  seems  to  have  a  mind  of  its 
own,  and  designs  to  use  me  as  a  block  to  show  off  its  own 
glories  and  fineness  of  material  and  fit,  whereas,  candidly, 
I  do  not  like  playing  second  fiddle  so.  But,  aside  from 
my    general  hankering  after  old  duds,  when  bird's-nesting 


is  my  business    I    need    old    things.      Climbing    trees    and 
sliding  down  trees  is  not  conducive  to  the  welfare  of  first- 
class  garments;  the  tears  in  them,  when  the  exploits  of  the 
trip  are  ended,  are  not  elegant,  and  frequently  the  rips  are 
made  bias  and  construct  a  variety  of  geomet- 
rical figures  which,  while  they  are  mathematical, 
JM  are  inferior  good  taste  in  garments.     Ventila- 

tion is  secured;  but  covering  of  the  body  is 
not  secured,  which,  as  I  am  told  by  those  pos- 
K  sessing  information  in  such  matters,  is  the  real 
intention  of  clothing.  Clothes  are  meant  to 
cover;  that  is,  a  man's  clothes  are.  So,  on  bird's- 
nesting  days  I  rummage  through  the  closet 
peekaboo  anci    get    my    ^d    things,  and    find    a    pair  of 

ancient  shoes,  and  in  these  garments  of  decayed 
gentility  set  out.  Now  to  the  woods.  Let  me,  if  possible, 
get  there  in  a  jiffy. 

Either  I  go  alone,  or  one  man  and  I  go.  Just  one 
man.  He  likes  this  kind  of  thing.  Some  men  tolerate  it; 
but  tolerance  is  not  a  virtue  in  bird's-nesting.  There 
must  be  a  radiant  delight  in  the  occupation.  This  is  like 
making  love:  unless  you  enjoy  it,  there  is  no  fun  in  it. 
And  this  man,  this  villain,  despite  his  many  objectionable 
features,  has  some  redeeming  traits.  He  is  now  married  into 
my  family,  and  it  is  Christian  to  be  fraternal  with  him;  and 
when  I  get  him  out  alone,  where  there  is  no  female  to  egg 
him  on  to  independence  of  behavior,  he  does  passably  well; 
but  put  him  around  where  the  women  are,  and  he  would 
be  bound  to  show  off, — but  sometimes  I  allow  him  to  go 
bird's-nesting.  And  the  spirit  is  good  in  my  case,  and  I 
like  to  see  him  skinning  his  hands  on  the  obstreperous 
bark,  and  making  breaches  in  his  breeches,  and  seeing  him 
tumble  from  a  tree  holding  a  broken  branch  in  his  hands 
as  a  reminiscence  of  where  he  has  been  and  what  he  has 
done.  He  acts  as  if  he  fell  on  purpose.  According  to 
his   tell,    nothing  ever  happens  to  him.     He  fell,  not  be- 

280 


cause  the  branch  broke,  but  because  he  was  in  haste  to 
come  down.  This  is  his  yarn.  I  take  no  stock  in  that 
kind  of  talk,  but  it  pleases  him;  and  we  get  at  the  nests, 
anyhow. 

To  go  bird's-nesting  to  advantage,  thickets  as  well  as 
trees  are  desirable.  Birds  love  thickets;  they  are  not  high- 
minded,  but  condescend  to  bushes  of  low  estate.  Loath 
as  I  am  to  say  any  word  derogatory  to  my  friends,  the 
birds,  truth  must  be  told  if  a  narrative  is  to  be  serviceable. 
What  I  regret  to  say  is,  that  birds  do  not,  as  a  rule,  build 
nests  in  high  trees.  They  should.  Things  gifted  with 
wings  should  give  themselves  to  aspiration.  To  star  every 
topmost  branch  of  every  loftiest  tree  with  a  nest  is  the 
manifest  duty  of  the  birds.  Yet,  save  with  crows,  hawks, 
and  occasional  orioles  and  vireos,  the  exception  is  to  find 
tree-heights  occupied  by  nests.  Sycamores  I  do  not  recall 
to  have  seen  holding  a  single  nest.  Tall  walnuts  are  nest- 
less.  Cottonwoods  have  orioles'-nests,  and  so  have  maples. 
But  even  orioles  affect  rather  the  outmost  branches  of  trees 
than  topmost  or  tallmost;  they  tenant  extremities,  that  is  all. 
Birds  build  more  in  orchards  with  a  low,  slant,  rooflike 
tree-top,  or  in  thickets,  plum  thickets,  wild-crab  thickets, 
lilac  bushes,  little  wayside  thickets  of  any  sort,  sometimes 
in   buckberry-bushes,  ofttimes    in  a  wild-berry  bush. 

Certain  it  is  that  birds,  instead  of  climbing  trees  where 
they  shall  be  near  the  sky,  build  where  the  earth  is  more 
neighborly  than  the  sky.  The  reasons  we  are  unapprised 
of;  the  facts  we  must  allow.  And  then,  too,  so  many  birds 
build  on  the  ground.  Such  nests  you  must  stumble  on; 
no  eyesight  can  guide  you,  save  as  you  watch  a  bird  fly 
out  from  beneath  your  wayward  feet.  Last  Spring  some 
friends  of  mine  and  I  were  driving  out  to  see  the  Spring 
greening  the  hills  and  brightening  the  willows  along  the 
stream,  when  we  saw  their  pointer  at  point,  and,  going 
to  find  the  cause,  came  on  two  quails,  man  and  wife,  who, 
with  a  great  whirr,  skedaddled  when  we   came  on  themj 

281 


and  there,  fresh  made,  with  the  dirt  yet  moist  where  they 
had  newly  hollowed  it,  was  a  hooded  nest,  one  infrequent 
to  be  found.  Whether  quails  fail  to  build  hooded  nests 
for  lack  of  material  or  for  lack  of  disposition  or  lack  of 
knowledge,  none  is  smart  enough  to  know;  but  this  nest 
was  a  stately  habitation,  and  one  to  be  proud  of  all  a 
bird's  days,  and  where  we  found  it  was  in  an  alfalfa  field, 
on  a  hillside  leaning  south,  swept  by  south  winds,  and  open 
to  the  gentle  south. 

By  the  agnostic  in  bird's-nesting,  this  sport  might  be 
thought  to  be  a  species  of  brigandage.  "What,"  says  the 
virtuous  soul,  "what  right  have  you  to  take  possession  of 
a  bird's  nest?  This  I  call  thieving."  Softly,  friend,  softly; 
you  speak  as  one  of  the  foolish  virgins.  This  bird  came 
to  this  farm  by  squatter  sovereignty,  paid  no  rent,  asked 
no  odds,  had  his  house  till  his  family  was  gone  and  doing 
for  itself,  until  pa  and  ma  bird  went  of  skylarking  for  a 
whole  Winter  and  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  lock  their 
door  and  leave  the  key  with  a  neighbor,  nor  even  shut  the 
door.  Now,  clearly,  this  house  belongs  to  this  farm.  The 
owner  of  these  woods  can  claim  these  birds'  houses.  No; 
birds  are  not  proprietors  of  those 

' '  Bare  ruined  choirs, 

Where   late  the  sweet  birds   sung," 

They  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  This  nest  is  for 
rent;  for  it  is  desolate.  The  withered  leaves  fill  it.  It  is 
nobody's  house,  so  we  who  appropriate  it  are  not  brigands, 
but  legitimate  occupants.  Besides  this,  we  are  to  consider 
that  to  leave  birds'  nests  over  is  bad  morals  for  the  birds. 
If  they  come  back  next  year,  to  occupy  this  old  house 
would  be  to  encourage  laziness.  And  what  fun  his  wife  and 
himself  have  in  building  their  house!  Bless  me,  that  is 
sport.  No  end  of  talking  and  flirting,  and  billing  and 
cooing,  and  occasional  fussing  and  occasional  flying  away 
to  find  lumber  for  the  house.     No,  birds  ought  to  rebuild 

282 


every  Spring.     It  is  good  for  their  morals.     They  must,  in 
the  interest  of  their  own  individuality,  put  up  a  new  house 
each  year  of  their  life.     And  I  have  not  found  them  indis- 
posed so  to  do.     They  want  new  quarters,  and  do  not  like 
old,  weather-beaten  premises.    The  ordinary 
bird  is  too  good  a  housekeeper  for 
that.      She  wants   things  spick  and 
span  new;  like  a  bride.      And 
so  I  will,  as  a  matter  of  ornith- 
ological    courtesy    and     socio- 
logical benefit,  take  possession 
of    last    year's    birds'    nests. 
Furthermore,  Winter   is   not 
kind  to  a  bird's   nest.     The  rains  fall 
in  and  drench  it  through  and  through,  and  the 
snowflakes  fall  in  and  freeze  it,  and  the  walls 
of  the  cozy  habitation  rot.     Nests  do  not  well       artistry 
survive    the    Winter's    viciousness.      And    the 
winds  have  spite    against   dainty  bird   architecture.      The 
Winter-long  rush  of   winds,  both  boorish  and  ill-natured, 
ruin  most  of  the  pendant   habitations,  so  far   as  my  eyes 
have  taken  notice.     So,  to  shorten  a  long  matter,  I  think 
that  in  going  bird's-nesting  I  am  not  filching,  but,  like  the 
true  lover  of  the  beautiful,  saving    some    passing  form  of 
beauty   from   destruction  and  certain   oblivion,  I  am,  like 
Horace  Walpole,  a  delighter  in  the  dainty  and  picturesque. 
But  here  we  are  to  the  wood's  edge.     Old  clothes,  old 
shoes,  old  hat,  and  old  self  ready  for  business.     We  must 
work  or  we  shall  have  no  wages.     The  sunlight  is  like  a 
smile  on  the  face  of  grief,  glad  and  pitiful.     Indian  Sum- 
mer still  baffles  pursuit,  like  a  wraith,  but  is  forever  allur- 
ing.    Light  cirrus  clouds  spread  out  their  indolent  smoke. 
In   the  higher    air    the   vagrant   winds  become   somnolent. 
Tiiere   careless    quiet   lies.      Along   the   hillside,   where   in 
August  vines  tangled  like  a  child's  curls  blown  in  a  Summer 
wind,  you  may  now  see  everything  as  you  walk  along  leis- 

285 


urewise.  We  must  not  hurry.  We  hurried  to  get  here, 
but  we  must  not  hurry  now.  To  haste  will  be  to  miss; 
and  we  must  miss  nothing.     That  would  be  sin. 

Would  you  think  that  any  bird  would  build  a  nest  only 
eighteen  inches  above  the  ground  in  a  buckberry-bush? 
Upon  my  word,  here  swings  a  nest  dainty  enough  to  hold 
a  woman's  jewels.  I  envy  not  her  casket,  so  I  have  this. 
And  I  have;  for  I  picked  it  from  the  bush.  The  bush 
belongs  to  me,  so  does  the  nest.  What  happy  house- 
builders  these  birds  are!  I  like  their  style  of  architecture. 
See  you,  how  this  is  woven  out  of  leaves,  last  year's  brown 
leaves  picked  from  the  ravine,  and  made  a  house  of  for  a 
brood.  Leaves,  you  are  honored  so;  and,  nest,  you  are 
honored;  for  you  shall  hang  in  my  study  while  the  Winter 
winds  wail  along  the  skies  and  woods,  and,  looking  at  you, 
the  woods  and  the  hill-sides  of  autumn  shall  smile  upon 
me  like  a  happy  face.  We  shall  be  neighbors,  you  and  I. 
At  my  desk,  while  I  sit  with  pencil  and  book,  will  I  hang 
you,  and  for  both  of  us  you  shall  make  a  year-long  Sum- 
mer there. 

And  can  you  think  of  daintier  nest  material  than  with- 
ered leaves?  Some  nests  are  made  of  woven  grasses;  some 
of  grass-roots;  some  of  the  husks  of  corn;  some  of  the 
shreds  of  corn-blades;  some  of  sticks,  as  the  bluejay's  and 
and  the  wren's;   some  from  floating  cotton  of  cottonwoods, 


\()THI\C    BIT   LEAVES 


and  dainty  nests  this  makes,  as  you  may  note  in  this 
picture;  some  from  buffalo-grasses  woven  dainty  as  lace; 
some  from  hair  from  horses'  manes  and  tails;  some  from 
mud  pressed  together,  as  the  robin  does;  some  from  the 
cotton-fields;  and  this  humming-bird's  nest  in  the  picture 
is  from  California,  and,  strange  to  say — for  these  sunbeams 
do  not  so  build — their  house  is  built  wholly  of  cotton. 
But  as  for  me,  no  bird's  house  material  is  to  compare  with 
last  year's  leaves.  They,  in  their  turn,  made  music  in  the 
wind,  swinging  to  and  fro;  and  now  it  is  fitting  that  they 
should  build  a  house  where  musicians  live,  and  from  which 
winged  singing  folks  shall  pass  into    the  sky  with  a  shout. 

This  nest  made  entirely  from  horse-hair  I  climbed  for 
in  Nebraska.  It  swung  at  the  tiptop  branch  of  a  box- 
elder,  a  tree  not  made  for  men  generously  gifted  with  avoir- 
dupois to  climb.  The  nest  was  on  the  central  tree-stem 
at  the  absolute  apex,  and  where  my  feet  stood,  the  branch 
was  not  larger  than  my  index  finger.  But  for  its  being 
the  central  stem  of  the  tree  and  the  nest  being  straight 
above,  it  could  not  have  held  a  man  of  my  size;  but  as  it 
was,  I  tiptoed,  while  a  small,  freckled-faced  boy  on  the 
ground  hooted,  hoping  to  see  me  fall,  which  hope  I  thwarted. 
I  got  the  nest,  and  came  down  in  hilarious  temper,  trium- 
phant over  the  tree,  the  bird  which  built  the  nest,  the  nest, 
and  the  jeering  boy.  And  this  nest  of  hair  was  even 
woven  with  more  skill.  And  I  love  to  look  at  this  wicker- 
basket  on  whose  weaving  two  dainty  birds  spent  happy 
Spring  days  to  the  sound  of  much  music  from  happy 
hearts. 

And  what  a  climb  for  this  nest,  close-closed  as  to  keep 
intruders  out!  But  one  withered  leaf  lies  like  a  wee  bird 
fast  asleep,  and  there  the  leaf  shall  lie,  while  Winter  rages 
across  seas  and  land,  until  Spring  comes  back  with  beau- 
teous merry-making.  While  I  have  my  way,  thou  withered 
leaf,  thy  sleep  shall  not  be  troubled.  No  intruder  shall 
touch  thee  roughly;  only  friends  of  mine  shall  look  in  on 

287 


you,  who  care  to  lean  and  look  at  a  baby  asleep.  And 
where  are  thy  birds,  cuddled  here  in  the  green  June  month, 
and  taught  to  wing  their  way  across  the  tree-tops  in  later 
days?  Where  are  you,  vagabonds  of  the  sky?  Laddies, 
aye,  but  I  would  love  to  hear  your  voices  in  a  song!  But 
you  are  gone:  your  music  is  mute,  and  this  leaf,  which  had 
its  own  melody,  has  lost  its  singing  like  a  decayed  singer, 
and  it  is  quiet  as  a  worn-out  soldier  fallen  asleep. 

And  this  nest  full  to  the  brim  of  fallen  leaves, — why, 
it  is  like  a  parable  of  the  Fall.  Whoever  built  it  was 
democratical  enough.  He  wove  together  a  piece  of  old 
newspaper,  a  lot  of  strings,  grassblades,  threads  from 
rushes,  roots,  sticks,  branches,  as  in  a  hurry.  Maybe  he 
came  late,  or  some  disaster  befell  his  house;  but,  anyway, 
how  beautiful  his  nest  is!  It  sprawls  out  in  a  strange,  in- 
congruous fashion,  carelessly  enough;  yet,  when  the  whole 
is  considered,  how  beautiful  the  nest  is,  open  like  a  neigh- 
bor's front  door,  ample  enough  for  a  good-sized  family! 
Withal  it  is  like  a  country  house  which  takes  much  room, 
because  ground  is  plentiful  and  cheap  and  we  need  not 
skimp  proportions.  I  found  this  nest  in  a  little  elm-tree 
leaning  over  the  stream.  What  jolly  times  this  bird  had  all 
Spring  and  Summer  through!  But  they  heard  the  calling 
of  the  Southern  Summer,  and  are  gone  to  meet  the  voice. 

In  bird's-nesting  you  may  always  rely  on  the  element  of 
surprise.  You  count  on  nothing.  Certain  general  facts 
will  be  lit  upon,  but  lest  we  grow  too  wise  in  our  own  con- 
ceit a  topsy-turvy  element  will  run  into  our  calculation,  like 
sunbeams  through  a  canopy  of  leaves.  For  instance,  birds 
do  not  in  our  degenerate  days  frequent  the  wild  woods  as  a 
body  could  wish.  I  have  hunted  for  hours  in  the  woodland, 
and  found  not  a  single  nest  save  of  hawks  or  crows.  The 
city  instinct  is  on  the  birds  as  on  the  folks  of  our  commu- 
nity. Birds  are  not  sylvan  now.  They  do  not  love  woods 
for  the  woods'  sake.  I  was  shocked  at  them  when  I  first 
began  to   get  this  clew.     When  I  was  a  novice  in  bird's- 

288 


NIGHT 


19 


nesting  I  thought  that  birds  were  sure  friends  of  the  woods 
and  fields  and  remote  thickets,  that  they  were  the  immortal 
woodsmen.  And  when  I  began  Autumnal  trips  long  miles, 
and  rode  on  the  cars  through  thousands  of  miles  of  forests, 
and  would  see  only  a  lonesome  nest  now  and  then,  here  and 
there,  but  would  find  every  little  village  with  its  box-elders 
and  cottonwoods  and  plum  thickets  and  lilac-bushes  and 
apple  and  peach  trees  fairly  populous  with  nests,  I  perceived 
how  little  weight  is  to  be  given  to  theory,  and  how  entirely 
it  was  a  matter  of  experience.  Crows  stay  by  the  woods, 
and  hawks  build  far  from  the  crowd,  and  eagles  are  dwel- 
lers on  mountain  ledge  or  near  the  sea,  and  the  crane  holds 
his  lonely  recess  on  the  sand  dune;  but  even  blue  herons 
I  have  seen  build  their  huge,  crude  villages  in  a  stone's- 
throw  of  a  house.  Even  the  birds  are  moving  to  town. 
Where  shall  we  end  our  wonder?  The  other  day  a  flock 
of  quails  was  whistling  right  cheerily  in  a  preacher's  door- 
yard  in  a  Kansas  town  of  reputable  population.  Without 
dispute,  birds  are  backslidden  when  the  bob-white  comes 
to  town  to  watch  how  city  folks  live. 

Bird's-nesting  in  a  wild  woods  is  largely  inlucrative.  In 
Autumn  you  can  see  a  nest  so  far.  Trained  eyes  can  sight 
one  as  if  it  were  a  lit  lamp.  I  have  wondered  at  this.  If 
the  eyes  be  trained,  it  is  really  interesting  to  note  how  few 
nests  can  elude  one  as  he  drives  never  so  swiftly  along 
hedgerows  and  treetops,  and  even  thickets  of  willow  grown 
by  the  pools.  The  place  to  light  on  bird's  nests  is  in  town, 
where  birds  have  come  for  reasons  of  their  own.  We  must 
not  speak  with  emphatic  information  when  birds  are  in 
question.  They  never  tell  what  they  think  or  why  they  do. 
Though  they  are  gabby  little  codgers, 
they  talk  about  unessentials  in  hearing  of  *f  r\  ~£z&-^ 
the    rabble  of  humanity,  and  tell  their  do-   '.    'A 


mestic  matters  in  the  privacy  of  their  own 
family.  Everything  about  birds  is  ob- 
scure.     They  wear   a  cloud   about    their 

291 


m 


mm. 


WHERE  LATE  THE 
SWEETBIRD   SUNG" 


hearts.  But  it  would  appear  that  probably  birds  have 
found  that  boys  and  girls  and  grown-ups  are  not  hostile 
to  bird  communities  as  their  wild  and  native  enemies. 
This  is  a  tribute  to  boys  and  to  people  generally.  That 
birds  should  have  found  us  not  enemies,  but  friends, 
warms  my  heart  and  inclines  me  even  more  to  my  kind. 
Or,  maybe,  dinners  and  breakfasts  are  easier  to  get  in 
the  town  than  in  the  country.  Maybe  they  have  grown 
to  be  devotees  of  baker's  bread  like  city  folks;  but  peace 
to  these  surmises.  "We  burn  daylight,"  as  friend  Shakes- 
peare has  observed;  and  daylight  is  too  dear  to  burn. 
Standard  oil  is  cheaper.  But  in  town,  birds  and  their  nests 
are,  this  is  certain.  Woods  are  almost  empty  of  their 
houses,  and  villages  are  filled  with  them.  At  our  parson- 
age home  in  the  down-town  district,  where  smoke  clouds 
sunrise  and  sunset  and  the  young  darkness  so  as  to  almost 
obliterate  the  glory  of  first  light  and  last  light  and  the 
gentle  stars,  here  a  blessed  robin-redbreast  builds  his  doby 
house,  and  offers  his  oblations  of  song  to  the  God  of 
birds  and  singing.  And  in  the  dim  prelude  to  dawn  his 
flute  begins  to  play,  and  such  a  ruddy  tune  it  is,  wells  up 
from  his  ruddy  breast.  I  bless  him  lor  it,  and  have  blessed 
him  many  's  the  time.  He  fingers  his  flute  with  rare  de- 
light, as  if  he  were  a  troubadour  with  breath  and  love  elate. 
"Day  will-  be-  here-  pretty-  soon-  pretty-  soon,"  is  what  he 
says  with  his  flute  a-playing  like  the  wind;  and  at  every 
evening,  as  day  tries  to  stifle^ts  shining  so  birds  and  chil- 
dren and  tired  folks  may  faj/l  asleep  and  not  be  bothered 


FOUND   ON    A   HEDGEROW 


with  the  light,  this  blessed  robin-redbreast  sits  on  the  tip- 
top of  our  house  and  calls  "  Good-night-  good-night- 
good-  goody-  good-night."  He  is  saying  his  prayers  to 
music.  Selfishly,  I  am  glad  the  birds  have  moved  to  town 
and  built  by  our  house,  and  that  a 
wren  giggles  all  the  Summer  day,  ..«.*; 
long,  coming  late  but  taking  beauti- 


mL 


ful  possession  of  his 
porch-end  room;  rent 
free.     The  wren  never  *•  *j,i?j 

asks    what    we    charge 
for  this    room.      She  pays  in 
song;  and  we  shall  grow  rich, 
plutocratically    rich,    renting 
rooms  to  wrens,   if    they  pay 
in  the  gold  coin  of  laughter  to  song.    | 
I    have   a   hemidrachm  of   Ptolemy   I. 
It  is  a  drop  of  tawny  gold  set  with  a         the  wren's  nest 
graven  face  of  Ptolemy  on  the  obverse 

and  a  double-headed  eagle  on  the  reverse;  and  I  love  that 
drop  of  gold  like  honey  stolen  from  some  ancient  hive  in 
high  Hymettus;  but  I  love  it  less  than  this  gold  laughter  of 
the  Summer  wrens  who  live  with  us,  and  who  have  made 
themselves  so  at  home  with  us.  Cast  eyes  on  this  porch- 
end  nest,  which,  by  the  way,  is  the  most  elaborate  bit  of 
nesting  I  have  ever  known  wrens  to  indulge  in.  This 
wren  family  evidently  is  no  poor  trash,  but  some  wren  aris- 
tocrat; and  I  feel  fairly  puffed  up  that  they  have  rented  our 
room.  Red-shouldered  blackbirds  are  willow  lovers,  and 
build  a  nest  of  rare  beauty.  Whether  this  picture  catches 
the  wonder  or  not,  the  wonder  is  there.  I  found  this  nest 
in  Southern  Kansas,  out  from  a  thriving  village  a  mile  or 
more,  down  where  a  duck-pond  decoys  silly  ducks  to  their 
doom;  and  this  pond  was  fenced  in  with  a  thicket  of 
willows  brawny  and  graceful  and  winsome  in  the  surprise 
of  Spring  green  or  the  gladness  of  Summer  leaves,  or  the 

293 


THE    PEW 
NEST 


leaves  touched  at  last  with  a  tinge  of  yellow  which  does 
not  quite  eliminate  the  emerald,  or  where  all  the  branches 
are  bare  and  withy,  and  fitted  to  answer  to  the  wander- 
ing winds  like  strings  of  harps.  Here  the  blackbirds  built 
this  nest,  woven  of  slough  grasses  twined  with  many  a 
twining  around  the  near  branches,  till  neither  wind  nor 
torrent  can  dislodge  the  nest.  What  a  happy  day  I  had 
climbing  the  willows,  looking  at  the  sky,  listening  for  the 
quick  response  of  a  blackbird's  note,  but  listening  in  vain, 
and  gladdening  at  sight  of  this  dainty  house  where  these 
shadowed    birds    had    their    home  in  peace! 

And  in  Fall-time  all  nests  are  more   or  less  leaf-filled. 

And  I    am    not    sure    a  nest   is  lovelier  in  my  sight   when 

hungry  birds  crowd   it  brimful,  or  when  leaves   lie 

tucked  in  like  birds  asleep.      I   have  a  nest  with 

leaves  and  a  walnut  for  occupants;   another  one 

*  with    an   acorn  snoozing  there;   but  leaves  are 

■^■•wp-        always  sleeping   in  them,   unless   it   be  a  shut- 

■^i   door  oriole  nest,  though  even  in  that  dainty 

_j|  cottage,  little  opened   to  the  air  or  light,   I 

&»aa  have  seldom  seen  but  that  a  single  leaf  had 

a  crept    in    and    cuddled    down    there  on    the 

j£  hearth-rug.     The  pathos  of  this  world  is  in 

this, — a    nest    emptied    of    birds    and    filled 

with  withered  leaves;  but  the  pathos  is  poetry, 

and    very    dear    to    hearts    that    live    abroad 

mongst  the  secrets  of  the  world. 

What  a  day  I  had  when  on  the  Smoky  Hill 

River  I  climbed   from   day-dawn  to  night-dawn 

after    inaccessible    nests;     climbed    and     failed, 

skinned   my  shins,  tore  my  trousers,  bankrupted 

my  buttons  (which  is  a  plain  breach  of  our  family 

government),  fell  divers  times  and  distances,  was  elate 

as  air,  was  submerged  in  Indian  Summer  haze,  was 

climbing  up  into  God's  sky, — why,  heart,  you  never  fail  when 

bird's-nesting!     You  always  catch.     This  "a  good  catch"  I 

294 


caught  that  day.  I  dawdled,  I  hastened,  I  sang,  I  Veil,  1  ran,  I 
slid,  I  exchanged  bark  with  the  trees,  I  climbed  watch-tow- 
ers of  the  world;  and  this  absolutely  delicious  oridle  nest — 
for  I  never  saw  one  more  perfect,  nok  care  \o — I  saw  dan- 
gling high  and  far  out  over  the  river.  \  These  oriolis  are  a 
teasing  folk.  They  do  that  way.  They  build  at\tiptop 
branches  or  on  the  far  end  of  the  farthest  twig  |eWing 
across  the  stream.  And  this  sunlit  cottVnwood  spre/aa  <W 
over  the  Smoky  Hill ;  and  on  the  last  tw 
counted  costs.  The  tree  was  high;  the  fa 
was  great;  but  my  life  was  insured,  an 
I  had  an  accident  policy  from  which  I  have 
never  collected  a  cent.  All  these  generous 
motives  conspired  with  my  love  for  the  nest 
to  urge  me  on.  If  I  fell,  I  would  fall  into 
the  river.  The  sport  would  be  the  greater, 
but  the  hurt  would  be  less  than  a  fall  on  the 
dirt.  I  came,  I  climbed,  I  have  the  nest 
You  think  the  achievement  slight,  friend;  but 
you  do  not  know.  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I 
have  the  nest,  and  am  I  not  loaning  you  its 
picture?  You  may  see  this  nest  hanging  on 
deer  antlers  in  my  study,  close  to  an  oar 
broken  in  raging  water.  You  shall  see  it  when 
the  nests  and  me. 

And  this  dainty  nest,  warped  and  woofed  with  dull-gold 
leaves,  was  built  in  one  of  my  apple-trees  on  my  farm — a 
baby  apple-tree,  not  taller  than  to  reach  one's  girdle;  and  I 
love  this  nest  for  its  shapeliness,  and  where  it  was  builded, 
and  the  gay  young  couple  that  built  it  to  the  sound  of 
merry  music,  for  the  gladness  I  had  in  finding  it  when  the 
birds  had  just  left  its  homely  shelter  to  find  the  shelter  of 
the  sky. 

But  a  bird's  wing  or  song  or  jesting  with  the  wind  has 
diverted  me.  I  was  saying  how  we  could  not  count  on  birds. 
They  are  such  uncertain  folks.    They  love  orchards;  and  not 

295 


LACKBIRD  S  NEST 


you  visit 


many  days  ago  I  went  to  see  good  friends  of  mine  who  are 
not  choice  about  their  guests,  and  spent  a  day  nesting  in 
their  orchard,  which  in  May  time  is  a  sweet  landscape  of 
bloom  billowing  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind,  a  long,  tilting, 
bewildering  field  of  fragrance  and  delight,  a  whole  land- 


/  // 


% 


A   GOOD   CATCH 


scape  of  bloom.  In  October  this  orchard  is  brilliant  with 
miles  and  miles  of  apples,  beautiful  beyond  the  apples  of 
Hesperides  ;  and  when  flower  and  fruit  are  gone,  I  come  to 
tramp  the  orchard  through  for  bird's-nesting;  and,  to  my 
disappointment  and  spunkiness,  find  hardly  a  nest  is  to  be 
found  in  all  that  genial  housing-place  of  birds.  If  I  keep 
up    bird's-nesting    I    shall    grow    suspicious    like   Tiberius 

296 


AN   ORIOLE 
NEST 


•      J 

Caesar.     I  must  be  on  guard  lest  I  grow  sullen  * 
and  morose  over  these  frivolous  incongruities  of  i 
birds.     And  hedgerows  are  not  frequented  much  I 
of  birds  for  nesting-places,  safe  as  a  hedgerow  is.  \ 
But  I  do  not  think  birds  sagacious.     Their 
schooling  has  been  neglected.     What  they 
remember  they  do,  but  they  are  so  busy 
sparking  and  gadding   as  not  to  have  ac- 
cumulated   school    learning;    and    hedges 
they    do    not    greatly    affect.      Mourning 
doves  build    here,  and  the  golden  thrush 
with  his  wonderful  melody;  but  the  birds 
who  build  daintily  like  a  woman's  drawn- 
work,  these   do   not   frequent  hedgerows, 
nor  do  many  other  kinds  of  birds.     Yet 
have  I  seen  a  hedgerow   a  veritable  tene- 
ment  so   thick  was  it   built    to   nests.     Birds   are 
uncertain.     And  out  of  a  hedgerow  on  an  October 
day  wild   with   blustering  winds  which  fairly  made  battk- 
charges    across    the    sky,  and  every  tree  swayed  wildly  to^^^ 
its  touch,  on  such  a  day  did  I  take  this  dainty  nest  from 
a  hedgerow  and  have  hung  it  over  a  portal  of  this  article. 
Why,  a  face  carven  in  sardonyx  by  some  cunning  lapidist  is 
not  more  chaste. 

This  vocation,  you  call  it  sport  but  you  call  it  amiss. 
To  me  it  is  delightsome  vocation  I  never  tire  of.  Each 
year  I  come  to  bird's-nesting  with  new  vivacity  as  I  had 
never  done  it  before.  Life  gladdens  at  it.  I  crave  the 
honor  of  finding  the  house  in  which  song  birds  learnt  their 
melodies  and  from  whose  edges  they  tilted  to 
their  first  timorous  flight.  I  love  each  Fall  to 
stock  up  my  Study  with  new  works  of  bird  art. 
I  like  to  refresh  my  memory  on  their  skill  and 
feel  that  they  are  not  losing  their  cunning.  I 
have  to-day,  of  this  writing,  some  nests  which 


the  humming     make  me  want  to  go  on 

bird's  nest  ° 


lark.     Here  with  me 


while  Winter  rages  across  the  lake  and  churns  the  icy  waters 
into  frenzy,  I  will  have  these  Summer  songs  and  signs  which 
shall  hearten  me  till  Spring  comes  once  again. 

Bird's-nesting  is  good  for  headache  and  heartache. 
It  is  out  of  doors.  It  is  where  the  blue  sky  draweth  near. 
It  is  where  the  Autumn  wind  blows  balsam  of  falling  leaf 
and  odorous  walnut.  It  is  where  Autumn  clouds  dapple 
the  sky  with  indolent  artist's  brush,  and  where  the  shadow 
of  innumerable  wings  of  birds  of  passage  cross  your  heart, 
and  sprays  of  bird-songs  flash  out  on  you  like  wild  clematis, 
out  where  no  impediment  is  between  you  and  God  and 
the  sun  and  the  flight  of  far-off  stars  hid  now  in  daylight; 
but  your  heartache  eases  up  a  little,  and  the  bird-folk  have 
decoyed  your  heart  into  virginal  delight, 

"  And   the  cares  that   infest   the  day. 

Shall   fold   their  tents  like  the   Aral'-, 
And  as  silently  steal  au ay. " 


THE    WINTER    VEST 


THE  AUTUMN  WIND 


SAD  AUTUMN 


The  Autumn  Wind 

Brimful  of  loss  and  grieving, 
Gray  Autumn's  wind  am  I; 

And  mine  the  song-birds  leaving, 
And  mine  the  fretful  sky. 

And  mine  the  sad  heart  aching, 
0  mine  the  drip  of  tears; 

Mine,  too,  the  sad  heart's  breaking, 
That  endeth  but  with  years. 

And  mine  the  flame-leaf  falling, 
So  loath  to  drift  and  die; 

And  mine  the  wild  geese  calling, 
A-honking  through  the  sky. 

And  mine  the  voice  grown  weary 
With  calling  to  dead  flowers 

Across  a  landscape  dreary, 

Where  the  gray  rain-cloud  lowers. 

O  mine  the  hopeless  whining 
About  the  casements  dim, 

A  harp  with  no  divining 

Of  bloom  or  hope  or  Him  ' 


AND  THE  SEA 


WHERE   SEA    CLIFFS   TOWER 


20 


AND  THE  SEA 


It  is  not  given  to  any  one  to 
name  the  sea  in  measured  speech. 
He  loves,  fears,  hates,  vituperates, 
curses,    lauds,    wonders    at,    raves 
a  brave  anchor  over  the  sea,  everything  but  esteem 

it  placidly.  The  sea  is  like  giant 
characters  inciting  to  fierce  antagonism  or  amazing  fealty. 
It  tolerates  no  lukewarmness.  "Art  thou  forme  or  against 
me?"  is  the  brutal  challenge  of  the  sea,  from  which  is  no 
escape. 

Two  things  I  note  among  earth's  furniture  have  be- 
witched the  poets.  One  is  the  pine-tree;  the  other  is  the 
sea.  I  have  in  thought,  some  time  out  of  love  for  the  sea 
and  pine  and  poet  bewildered  of  both,  to  make  an  anthology 
of  all  references  all  poets  have  made  to  each.  'T  would  be 
an  enticing  task;  and  the  conclusion  of  the  matter  would 
be  a  complex  of  music  of  the  muttering  sea  and  the  bleak 
anguish  of  the  pine.  For  the  pine,  no  words  now.  But 
for  the  sea,  words  that  mean  well,  but  can  not  hope  to 
match  the  marvel  of  the  bewildering  but  unbewildered  deep. 
Long,  very  long  ago,  when  the  sight  of  his  poet  eyes 
was  nothing  other  than  evening's  memory  of  morning  dawn, 
blind  Homer  sat  listening  beside  the  sea.  Upon  a  head- 
land jutting  out  near  where  Orontes  spills  its  mountain  tor- 
rent into  the  salt  wave,  you  might  have  seen  Homer,  many 
a  day  at  morn  or  night  when  the  waves  moaned  against 
the  rocks,  leaning  with  bearded  chin  sunk  in  his  hands,  and 
his  blind  eves  watching  as  if  he  saw  far  away  where   blue 

309 


wave  lapped  against  blue  sky — sat  and  looked  and  listened; 
and  now,  when  he  could  not  get  the  glancing  of  the  sea- 
wave  save  from  memory,  he  gripped  the  sea's  hand  by 
hearing.  How  sea  and  he  held  dialogue  those  long  after- 
noons of  sightless  loneliness,  and  what  "story-telling  secret" 
did  the  troubled  waters  bathe  him  in!  What  histories  of 
wrecks  of  shattered  ships,  and  floating  of  dead  faces  on  the 
wicked  stormy  waves,  did  these  blind  waters  tell  to  this 
blind  poet!  To  a  blind  man  what  matter  what  secrets  were 
imparted?  He  could  not  see  to  write  them  down.  So  to 
this  brooding  blind  man  the  sea  unbosomed  itself,  opened 
its  gashed  wounds  and  let  him  look,  held  out  its  hands  torn 
with  the  wrecking  of  innumerable  fleets  of  ships,  blew 
breath  of  passion  into  its  vagrant  storv;  and  the  blind  poet 
heard  it  all,  nor  let  a  syllable  slip  from  his  memory,  but 
with  dim  hand  set  all  the  storv  down  as  in  a  book,  in  words 
drenched  with  the  salt  sea-spray,  the  old  sea's  story — told 


"The  Odyssey;"  and  from  that  far  evening  unto  now  the 
world  has  listened  to  his  sea.  This  sea  has  haunted  the 
centuries.  "The  Iliad,"  I  take  it,  was  the  story  of  the  eye- 
sight of  old  Homer,  and  "The  Odyssey"  the  story  of  his 
ear-sight;  in  the  one,  sight  abounds;  and  in  the  other,  sound. 
In  one  we  see  the  battling  armies  wrestle  across  the  plain; 
in  the  other  we  hear  the  battling  waves  shout  out  across  the 
world.  And  the  sea  that  haunted  Homer,  haunts  ourselves. 
Old  Hebrew  listeners  had  heard  its  clamorous  eloquence, 
and  had  seen  its  mounting  waves,  and  had  felt  its  awe,  and 
trembled  to  it,  crouched  beside  its  dashing  waters  when 
they  widened  out  into  the  sky  as  unafraid  and  filled  with  all 
wild  venturings.  The  Hebrew  felt  the  sea.  His  were  not 
frequent  visions  of  it.  His  land  bordered  not  on  the  blue 
and  plunging  deep.  He  had  no  seaport;  but  from  his  far 
hills,  as  from  a  watchtower,  he  gloomed  over  the  gloomy  sea 
until  he  had  its  awe  and  sublimity  by  heart,  as  nearly  as 
ever  man  has  had  them.  Listen  to  what  they  heard  and  saw 
and  said:  "Look  toward  the  sea;"  "A  noise  like  the  noise 
of  seas;"  "Slain  in  the  midst  of  the  seas;"  "Broken  by  the 
seas;"  "Am  I  a  sea,  that  Thou  settest  a  watch  over  me?" 
"Broader  than  the  sea;"  "He  divideth  the  sea  with  his 
power;"  "Who  shut  up  the  sea  with  doors  when  it  broke 
forth;"  "The  paths  of  the  seas;"  "Which  stilleth  the  noise 
of  the  seas  and  the  noise  of  their  waves;"  "Let  the  seas 
praise  Thee;"  "Whatsoever  the  Lord  pleased,  that  he  did 
in  the  seas;"  "Let  the  sea  roar  and  the  fullness  thereof;" 
"Thou  didst  divide  the  sea;"  "He  maketh  the  sea  to  boil 
like  a  pot;"  "He  turneth  the  sea  into  dry  land;"  "He  shall 
have  dominion  also  from  sea  to  sea;"  "The  sea  is  His,  and 
He  made  it;"  "The  great  and  wide  sea;"  "What  aileth 
thee,  O  thou  sea,  that  thou  fleddest?"  "When  He  gave  to 
the  sea  His  decree;"  "For  the  sea  hath  spoken;"  "The 
waters  shall  fail  from  the  sea;"  "At  my  rebuke  I  dry  up 
the  sea;"  "He  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas;"  "Thou 
stillest  the  raging  of  the  sea;"  "The  Lord  is  mightier  than 

311 


the  noise  of  many  waters,  yea,  than  the  mighty  waves  of  the 
sea;"  "The  wicked  are  like  the  troubled  sea;"  "Thy 
breach  is  great  like  the  sea;"  "He  rebuketh  the  sea,  and 
maketh  it  dry;"  "Whose  rampart  was  the  sea;"  "Hurt  not 
the  sea;"  "Art  thou  not  it  which  hath  dried  the  sea,  that 
hath  made  the  depths  of  the  sea  a  way  for  the  ransomed 
to  pass  over?"  "And  the  sea  gave  up  the  dead  which  were 
in  it;"  "Then  He  arose  and  rebuked  the  sea,  and  there 
was  a  great  calm;"  "What  manner  of  Man  is  this  that  even 
the  winds  and  the  sea  obey  Him?"  "And  there  was  no  more 
sea."  Such  men  as  wrote  such  things  touching  the  sea 
must  be  allowed  to  have  drunk  it  like  old  wine.  The  sub- 
limest  thoughts  ever  expressed  of  the  wild  deep  have  been 
expressed  by  these  Hebrews,  who  watched  the  wallowing 
seas  from  their  far  distant  hills,  and  put  listening  ears 
upon  the  ground  to  catch  the  diapasons. 

Three  things  have  put  themselves  beyond  the  being 
pictured — the  sky,  the  prairies,  and  the  sea.  You  can  paint 
no  picture  of  the  sky.  You  can  paint  its  stars,  or  its  set 
of  sun,  or  its  rising  moon,  or  its  atmosphere,  in  masses 
amethystine  or  lapis  lazuli  or  turquoise  or  sapphire;  but 
the  sky,  domed,  spacious,  glorious,  refrains  to  sit  for  its 
portrait.  And  the  prairie  level,  wide,  far-going,  ten-million- 
speared  with  grass  blades — no  artist  can  get  its  likeness. 
The  eye  can  catch  the  breadth,  the  motion,  the  vividness, 
the  integrality,  the  severalness,  the  variety,  the  breathless 
haste  to  reach  the  distant  sky,  the  eternal  quiet  as  anchored 
to  the  world;  but  brush  can  not.  They  labor  in  vain  who 
think  to  snare  the  prairie  to  a  canvas.  'T  is  as  the  wild 
things  which  evade  the  haunts  of  domesticity.  And  least 
of  all  can  a  painter  paint  the  sea.  All  efforts  are  bootless. 
Every  effort  hides  its  face  in  shame,  yet  is  ever  trying  with 
renewed  attempt.  The  wide,  wind-swept  line  of  undulant 
blue,  eager  for  the  sky — who  can  get  that?  To  attempt 
it  is  to  depict  an  unpicturesque  thing.  The  lone  sea  does 
not    lend    itself    to    being    pictured.     Art's   brush  can  not 

312 


catch  the  wonder  of  level  water.  The  brush  does  its  best 
in  picturing  sea-cliff,  or  sea  inlet,  or  level  quiet  of  sleepy 
water  on  which  ships  have  sunk  to  sleep  so  that  not  an 
idle  sail  nutters  to  an  idle  wind,  nor  ship  hull  rocks  in 
indolence  of  dozing  motion.  Artists  corral  the  sea,  get 
it  cornered  among  bleak  cliffs,  and  then  paint  Norwegian 
fiords,  or  let  sea-blue  water  laugh  out  in  an  open  bay 
where  sail-crafts  cluster  like  a  flock  of  snow-winged  gulls, 
and  count  that  a  tryst  made  with  the  sea;  or  come  by 
stealth  where  the  sea  lies  dozing  in  the  sun  in  marooned 
delight  along  lagoons  of  Venice,  and  splotch  wondrous 
blue  by  blur  of  splendrous  sails  idle  as  an  empty  thought, 
and  deem  that  they  have  caught  the  sea  by  stealth;  or 
where  sea-water  wraths  into  wild  crests  that  vainly  strive 
to  fisticuff  the  skies,  the  artist  rages  with  ecstasy,  and 
thinks  he  has  painted  the  behemoth  sea;  or  when  dim 
morning  dims  the  vexed  sea  with  early  light  scant  touched 

with  splendor,  artists  sit  and 
dip  their  eager  brushes  into 

the    day-dawn    and    the    sea, 

and    make    their   canvas    dim 

with    early   light    and    empty 

sail  and  empty  sea,  and  think 

they    have    painted    the    sea; 

or    when    the    sunset    lingers 

loath   to   pass,    and    sets   the 

fleets  of  clouds  on  fire  with 

his   useless    torches,   and    the 

waters    flame    like    sudden 

lavas,  and  the  brink  of  night 

burns  like  tropic  noons,  then 

artists   in   frenzied   mood   let 

the  glory  shine  its  torch  upon 

the  canvas,  so  that  cloud  and 

sea-waves  and  fleets  of  ships 

and    flicking    sea-gulls'   wing 

315 


A   SEA    SENTINEL 


are  all  a  glory  like  spilled  wine;   and  the  artists  think  they 
have    painted     the    unshored    sea.      They    were    all    make- 
believes,   the   trifling  of   children,   who   for   realities   substi- 
j.    tute  their  happy  dreams.     The  artists  have  not 
'     painted    the    sea.      Its    oceanic    wonders    have 
not  been   set   down.      You  can  not  coax  the 
sea  for  a  sitting.      It   is  as  if  you   asked  a 
tawny  lion  on  the  desert  waste  to  wait  to 
have  his  picture  taken.      He  will  give  a 
cat-spring  behind  a  dune  of  yellow,  shift- 
ing sand.     The  sea  can  have  no  artist. 
The  wide,  wild,  uncaged  wonder  of  the 
stretch  of  wave  is  dull  if  put  on  canvas. 
Its  vast    reiterant   wave    on   wave    from 
sky  to   sky  would    be    as   empty  of   ex- 
pression as  an  empty  targe.     You  may 
tear  a  tatter  of  the   blue  cloak   of   the 
sea,  and  call  it  sea,  or  capture  a  citadel 
of   rock    and    lave    its    base  with   music- 
making  waters,  and  call  it  sea;  may  spray 
a  blue  sea  surface  with  the  white  of  ships, 
and    name    the    sprayed    blue    a    sea;    may 
catch  a   sullen   wave   wrath-mastered   when 
it  crests  toward  its  curl  of  avalanche  of  fall- 
ing water,   as  saying  "The  sea,   the  sea;" — 
but    these    are    not    the    sea.     They   are    sea- 
moods,    sea-tatters,    fragments    of    a    hemis- 
phere, tangles  of  tortured  might,  patches  of 
sea-garden  glowed  on    by  the  sun;    but  the 
sea   evades   us.      He   wallows    into    the    sky, 
beyond     the     sky,    behind     the    sky,    across 
meridians,    across    the    world,    vast,    spheric 
and    therefore    unending,    mute,    loquacious, 
serene,  outrageous,   ineffable,   plangent,    triumphant,   unin- 
vokable,  stupendous,  our  earth  grown  infinite  past  all  pic- 
tures, crushing  with  its  salt-sea  hand  all  pigments,  canvases,, 

316 


A    PATHWAY^/ 
OF  T11K    SEA 


vocabularies,  exclamatories, — the  sea  slurs  artists  and  poets 
as  they  were  rabble,  and  snarls  his  lip  like  some  huge  tiger- 
cat  at  all  of  them,  so  that  to  the  last  we  must  set  him  down 
as  the  unreproducible  sea,  the  unpaintable  sea.  His  waters 
have  washed  the  colors  from  artist  brushes. 

And  this  sea  is  the  world's  giant.     It  owns  the 
earth.     All  continents  are  islanded  in  this  great 
deep.    A  hemisphere  was  for  ages  hidden  in  the 
sea,  and  so  securely  and  utterly  that  men  never 
guessed  at  its  existence.      A  certain  seagoing 
dreamer  lit  on  it  while  he  piloted  his  fleet  toward 
other  shores.     Deserts,  even  great  Sahara,  are 
little  kingdoms;   mountains  are  builded  on  nar- 
row strips  of  land;  prairies  are  emerald  banners 
fluttering  on  the  ground;   plateaus   are  tables  at 
which  the  clouds  sit  down  as  guests  of  honor;  ice- 
fields are  headlands  where  the  misfortunes  of  the 
world    have    cast    their    wreckage:— the    sea    is    the 
finite  infinity.     The   sea  ingulfs  the  world,    (if  earth 
were    showing    its    trophy    to    the    skies,    that    trophy 
would  doubtless  be  the  sea. 

The  sea  is  open  to  sight  and  wonder.  The  shoreless 
sea —that  is  his  prerogative.  And  if  any  were  blind  enough 
to  maintain  the  sea  had  shores,  to  argue  with  such  a  one 
were  wasted  effort.  Is  not  all  the  world  apprised  the  sea 
is  barrierless;  that  if  a  shore  seems  to  build  rampart  against 
the  aggressive  ocean,  it  is  seeming  and  no  more?  For 
what  the  ocean  does  is  to  make  the  continent  an  island. 
All  solid  ground  is  owned  by  the  grim  sea.  All  these  are  «a 
island  prisoners  of  him.  St.  Helena  is  a  prisoner  of  the 
sea,  as  Napoleon  is  prisoner  of  St.  Helena;  and  the  wide 
sea  snarls  round  all,  azures  round  all,  frets  round  all, 
beleaguers  all.  Here  the  porpoises  play;  here  the  whales 
plunge  in  troops,  like  ocean  cavalry;  here  waves  lunge 
masterless,  majestical.  The  sea  is  Ca^sar  of  this  world, 
and   may  with   rightful   music   say,    "The  world   is  mine. 


PAST  A   HEADLAND   OF  THE  SEA 

The  sea  owns  all.  He  is  our  emperor.  He  may  crucify 
us  or  send  us  on  laughing  journey  at  his  will;  for  in  his 
iron  hands  we  are  but  broken  reeds,  weaker  than  blades  of 
grass.  Nations  have  in  their  witlessness  affected  suzerainty 
of  the  sea,  —  Venetian,  Genoese,  Spaniard,  Hollander, 
English;  but  the  proud,  indocile  ocean  hath  broken  their 
ships  of  Tarshish  with  an  east  wind,  and  asserted  his  own 
sole  rulership,  so  that,  after  these  centuries  of  warfare, 
nations  have  concluded  that  no  one  owns  the  sea!  Lands, 
man  may  conquer,  and  has  conquered;  seas  mock  at  man's 
presence,  and  blur  blue  waves  with  hulks  of  wreck  from 
which  trail  the  white  hands  of  seamen  drowned  by  wash  of 
waxes  across  the  deck.  Small  wonder  if  this  tremendous- 
ness  of  the  sea  has  caught  human  imagination  as  in  banks 
of  sea-fog.  A  thing  so  huge  as  to  wash  away  the  limits  of 
kingdoms  and  republics,  and  secure  a  territory  only  its 
own,  is  fitted  to  put  fetters  on  the  wrists  of  human  wonder 
and  make  us  prisoners.  In  any  case,  so,  we  are  not  prison- 
ers  of    hope,    but    prisoners   of    the    wonder    of    the    sea. 

318 


In  no  other  poem  I  know  is  this  shoreless,  sea-wandering 
of  wind  and  wave  and  man  set  down  in  truer  fashion  than 
in  Joaquin  Miller's  sea  poem  "Columbus,"  which  is  all  but 
unapproachable: 

"  Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  gates  of  Hercules : 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said,    '  Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo  !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Admiral,  speak  ;  what  shall  I  say?' 

Why,  say  '  Sail  on  !   sail  on  !  sail  on  !' 

'  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day  : 

My  men  grow  ghastly,  wan,  and  weak,' 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home  ;   a  spray 

Of  salt-wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
'  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn  ?' 
'  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day, 

' '  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !   sail  on  !   sail  on  !"  ' 

They  sailed  and  sailed  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said  : 
'  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Admiral,  speak  and  say.' 

He  said,    '  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !   and  on  !' 


They  sailed.     They  sailed.     Then  spake  the  mate: 

'  This  mad  sea  shows  its  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth  as  if  to  bite  ! 
Brave  Admiral,  say  but  one  good  word  : 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone  ?' 
The  word  leaped  like  a  leaping  sword  : 

'  Sail  on  !   sail  on  !    sail  on  !   sail  on  !' 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness  :    ah  !   that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights.      And  then  a  speck — 

A  light  !   a  light !   a  light !    a  light ! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled  ! 

It  grew  to  be  time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world  :   he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson:    'On,  sail  on  !'  " 

This   is   the   glory,  the   pre-eminence,  the   fascination  of 
the  sea, 

"  Sail  on  !   sail  on  !   sail  on  !   and  on  !" 


Magellan,  Columbus,  Ulysses,  sail  on  forever,  nor  feel 
the  anchoring  hindrance  of  a  port.  An  open  sea,  an  end- 
less wave! 

Unpathed  waters,  virulent,  seditious,  calamitous,  and 
wide;  so  wide  the  wideness  of  the  sea!  What  a  phrase 
that  is  become!  We  may  tramp  the  waters  for  a  highway 
about  the  world,  and  encounter  no  impediment;  and  we 
become  immeshed  in  such  latitudes  and  longitudes,  so  that 
the  seas  have  their  way  with  us,  and  will,  while  this  world 
endures.     Great  ocean,  may  I  launch  on  thee? 

All  the  sea  has  is  drowned  in  wonder.  The  common- 
place dwells  not  in  hearing  of  the  sea.  One-where  at  least 
is  free  from  the  invasion  of  littleness.  It  is  so  huge  it  is 
sublime.  Men  are  entrapped  into  saying  the  sublime  thing. 
When  a  certain  great  man,  day  after  day  on  an  ocean  voy- 
age, was  given  to  sitting  at  the  ship's  prow  and  looking, 
looking  never  sated,  ever  eager,  a  garrulous  prig  obtruded 
the    query,    "What   do   you    see?"     "Nothing    but    God," 

320 


was  the  reply,  flung  like  a  harpoon,  but  huge  like  a 
thunderbolt.  The  sea  necessitates  large  sayings,  is  com- 
pulsive to  the  sublime.  It  is  as  if  the  sky-horizoned  ocean 
said  to  every  one  looking  upon  it,  "Talk  to  me,"  and  every 
one  obeys:  and  those  varied  voices  are  great  and  very 
tragical.  The  sea  is  the  challenger  to  be  sublime.  If 
asked  what  there  is  in  Tennyson's  "Ulysses"  that  haunts 
the  soul,  like  battle  voices,  blaring  trumpets,  hack  of  angry 
swords,  neighing  of  wounded  steeds,  calling  of  wounded 
men,  bullet's  spit,  cannons'  plunging  shot  and  roar  as  if 
they  were  a  brood  of  hungry  lions,  and  the  long  cry  of 
battle  tumult,  the  reply  must  be  this:  Ulysses  is  drenched 
with  the  sea.  Its  hunger,  its  roaming,  its  sea-change,  its 
fearful  fret,  its  leap  of  rock  and  surge,  its  white  foam 
tangling  on  wave  crest  or  island  precipice, — these  are  here, 
with  many  voices.     This  is  the  sea's  heart  talking: 

"  I  can  not  rest  from  travel.     I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,    have  suffered  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me  and  alone  :  on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea:    I  am  become  a  name." 

"  I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met : 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams  that  untravel'd  world  whose  margin  fades 
Forever  and  forever  when  I  move." 

"  And  this  gray  spirit,  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge,  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought." 

"  There  lies  the  port.     The  vessel  puffs  the  sail  : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas." 

"  The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes  ;  the  slow  moon  climbs  ;  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.      Come,  my  friends, 
'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and,  sitting  well  in  order,  smite 
The  sounding  furrows  ;   for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  Western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  ;  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  but  not  to  yield." 
323 


The  sea  hath  fought  its  way  into  the  heart,  and  com- 
pelled the  larger  mood  to  call  its  summons. 

And  the  sea  music !  Ah,  heart,  have  you,  have  you  heard 
that  melody?  When  organs  in  dim  minsters  fill  all  the 
shadowy  spaces  with  music  wave  on  wave,  cumulative,  up- 
lifting like  a  wave,  wistful,  calling  like  voices  we  love,  but 
long  since  lost, — when  we  hear  such  organ  music  we  are 
apt  to  thirk  this  is  the  climax  of  all  melody.  It  fairly 
storms  the  soul.  You  are  at  once  lifted  and  enveloped  by 
these  staccatos  and  crescendos;  but  once  hear  the  sea  play- 
its  anthems,  and  all  organ  voluntaries  become  shadows  of 
sound.  To  stand  at  night  below  the  cliffs  of  some  great 
sea  on  the  bruised  rocks,  and  hear  the  orchestral  sea  begin 
its  fugue,  long  breaths  of  murmurous  music,  wild  gusts  of 
threnody,  anguish  put  into  a  tune,  heartache  rinding  vent 
once  and  for  all,  sorrow  and  grieving  given  free  and  novel 
exponency! — O  heartache  and  heartbreak,  the  ocean  is 
your  musician!  Nothing  can  spell  sorrow  out  like  the  sea; 
and  when  a  rent  heart  was  listening  for  a  voice  to  bleed 
out  its  hundred  anguishes,  that  heart  prevailed  upon  the 
sea  to  compose  a  psalm  to  sob  out  heart-sorrow  evermore; 
and  this  is  what  the  sea  wave  sobbed: 

"Break,    break,     break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Am)  the  stately  ^\w\^  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 
lint  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish 'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  ! 

Break,    break,    break, 

At  tin-  fool  of  th\  crags,  0  sea ! 
But  the  tender  grai  e  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  hack  to  me." 


!i2«  | 

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L                A       ^K       ft'  "Vi'iriifwfr  Br**~ 

k      /iSMifns- 

Many  is  the  night  when,  under  somber  skies,  I  have 
lain  all  alone  on  sea-sands  drenched  with  voices.  No  star 
was  lit;  no  beacon  flung  light  on  the  black  sea-wave:  the 
vault  of  silent  sky;  the  lone,  bleak  stretch  of  sand;  and 
then  the  sea-wave  music!  How  it  conquered  the  world! 
How  it  drenched  the  shore  like  an  angry  wave!  How  it 
filled  the  gray  vault  from  marge  to  marge!  The  ocean 
music  knew  no  barriers,  asked  no  leave,  only  swept  the 
ocean  free  of  music,  and  spilled  it  on  the  land  and  sky  and 
me.  It  is  an  hour  to  date  life  from  backward  or  forward. 
The  long  sob  of  the  sea,  the  tearful  calling  of  the  homeless 
waves  which  make  any  heart,  listening,  to  feel  the  pangs  of 
orphanage.     O  chief  musician,  thy  name  is  Sea! 

And  when  winds  blow  from  off  the  million-acred  meadow 
of  the  sea,  clean,  brisk,  strong,  fitted  to  belly  listless  sails 
of  sluggard  ships,  to  dash  them  on  swift  as  flocks  of  clouds; 
to  feel  and  breathe  the  sea-wind;  to  hear  it  whispering  to 
the  sails  and  moaning  to  the  masts,  for  it  has  learned  the 
art  of  moaning  from  the  waves;  to  feel  and  hear  the  soft 
sea-whisper  to  the  sea-wind's  breath,  "We  come,  we  haste, 
we  go,  we  can  not  wait;  and  you,  poor  heart,  you  come,' 
you  haste,  you  go,  you  can  not  wait;  we  that  are  pilgrims, 
you  and  I,  a  sea-wind  I,  a  sea-breath  you,  both  blowing  out 
across  the  spacious  sea  into  the  infinite:"  and  the  sea-wind's 
caress  melts  from  the  face,  and  the  voice  fades  to  a  whisper- 
ing and  is  gone;  it  hath  outblown  us  to  the  infinite.  This 
poet,  Arthur  Ketchum,  has  felt  this  passing  sea-wind  and 
won  its  secrets: 

"  Winnow  me  through  with  thy  keen,  clean  breath, 

Wind  with  tang  of  the  sea  ! 
Speed  through  the  closing  gates  of  the  day, 
Find  me  and  fold  me;   have  thy  way, 

And  take  thy  will  of  me  ! 

Use  my  sou!  as  you  used  the  sky — 

Gray  sky  of  this  sullen  day  ! 
Clear  its  doubt  as  you  sped  its  wrack 
Of  storm-cloud  bringing  its  splendor  back, 

Giving  it  gold  for  gray  ! 
327 


^■^hll^r 


A  SAD   SEA    (  LI1  I 


Brin^;  me  word  ol   the  moving  ships, 

Halyards  and  straining  spars  ; 
Come  to  me  clean  from  the  sea's  wide  breast, 
While  the  last  lights  die  in  the  yellow  west, 

Under  the  first  white  stars  ! 

Batter  the  closed  doors  of  my  heart, 

And  set  my  spirit  free  ! 
For  I  stifle  here  in  this  crowded  place, 
Sick  for  the  tenantless  hehN  of  space, 

Wind  with  the  tang  of  the  sea  !" 

And  the  sea  holds  the  wonder  of  the  ships.  When  rac- 
ing tides  tug  at  every  ship  keel  as  calling  "Outward  bound," 
to  stand  upon  a  headland  and  watch  the  fisher  fleet  put  out 
to  sea  at  evening,  while  round  it,  with  many  a  cry,  the  sea- 
gulls lift  and  fall  like  bits  of  ocean  spray,  and  sunshine 
flames  on  every  chestnut  sail  until  it,  in  turn,  flames  like  a 
dull  fire,  or  paints  every  white  sail  into  a  snowy  whiteness, 
and  the  tide  tugs  insistent  to  be  gone,  and  the  sea  beckons, 

328 


and  the  sunset  waits,  and  women  beckon  from  the  rocks, 
and  the  light  upon  the  headland  is  lit  ready  for  the  night 
and  fishermen's  voices  lift  in  a  song  or  swaying  work  call, 
and  fresh  sea-winds  at  the  harbor's  mouth  catch  limp  sails 
and  lift  them  into  buoyant  vigilance, — watch  the  fisher  fleets, 
which  are  the  very  poetry  of  the  wide  sea,  man's  poetry 
learnt  from  the  poet  Ocean.  A  boat's  prow  is  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  things  man  has  made.  And  this  is  saying  much; 
for  man  has  proven  himself  an  artist  of  quaint  skill,  and 
has  carven  precious  stones  into  refulgent  loveliness,  and 
wrought  tawn  gold  in  flowers  and  arabesques  exquisite  as 
the  tendril  of  a  vine.  But  his  pre-eminent  achievement  in 
artistry  has  been  the  boat-prow,  the  sight  of  which  moves 
the  soul  to  encomiums  and  triumphs.  In  "Harbours  of 
England,"  a  book  unhappily  too  rare,  Ruskin  has  put  this 
poem  of  the  Ocean  into  the  poetry  of  words;  and  if  prose 
has  ever  been  amber  to  pure  loveliness  in  tenderer,  more 
receptive,  more  triumphant  fashion,  I  do  not  know  of  it. 
To  omit  this  description  would  be  to  rob  the  sea. 

Having  said  of  "the  blunt  head  of  a  common,  bluff, 
undecked  sea-boat  lying  aside  in  its  furrow  of  beach-sand," 
"The  sum  of  Navigation  is  in  that,"  he  proceeds:  "It  is 
wonderful  on  account  of  the  greatness  of  the  enemy  that  it 
does  battle  with.  To  lift  dead  weight;  to  overcome  length 
of  languid  space;  to  multiply  or  systematize  a  given  force: 
this  we  may  see  done  by  the  bar,  or  beam,  or  wheel,  with- 
out wonder.  But  to  war  with  that  living  fury  of  waters, 
to  bare  its  breast,  moment  after  moment,  against  the 
unwearied  enmity  of  ocean — the  subtle,  fitful,  implacable 
smiting  of  the  black  waves,  provoking  each  other  on, 
endlessly,  all  the  infinite  march  of  the  Atlantic  rolling 
on  behind  them  to  their  help,  and  still  to  strike  them  back 
into  a  wreath  of  smoke  and  futile  foam,  and  win  its  way 
against  them,  and  keep  its  charge  of  life  from  them:  does 
any  other  soulless  thing  do  as  much  as  this?"  The  boat's, 
prow  may  fittingly  do  obeisance  to  John  Ruskin,  poet. 

329 


These  bold,  adventurous  ships,  sea-soaked,  far-going, 
storm-enduring,  schooled  to  perils,  prow  pointing  to  every 
port  the  compass  knows,  lured  by  the  hot  waves  of  tropic 
sea,  scratched  on  by  the  rude  fingers  of  passing  icebergs, 
way  lit  through  nights  of  gloom  by  phosphorescent  glow, 
lying  becalmed  in  doldrums  of  southern  seas,  shrewd 
geographers  to  know  every  port  where  ships  put  in,  blithe 
as  sunlit  wave,  harsh  as  the  winter's  sea  at  night,  glad  to 
fight  the  ocean  when  with  causeless  anger  it  tries  to  stamp 
angry  heel  upon  the  decks  of  ships  and  make  them  sink 
and  rot  in  the  dusky,  hid  valleys  of  the  sea,  answering  to 
the  helmsman's  touch  as  to  the  thrilling  touch  of  love,  unbe- 
wildered  by  any  mad  onslaught  of  the  infuriated  sea,  every 
plank  so  soaked  with  salt  waves  until  in  wreck  they  burn 
like  chemic  lights,  masts  that  catch  and  hold  the  fluttering 
banner  of  a  sail  as  if  it  were  the  outstretched  wonder  of  a 
sea-gull's  wing,  prow  to  break  the  blue  deep  into  hemi- 
spheres, ships  held  at  anchor  by  anchor  fluke,  and  some 
sad  day — for  such  the  fate  of  ships — to  rot  in  wreck  along 
some  barren,  sandy  shore,  or  float  a  derelict  along  un- 
charted highways  of  the  sea, — O  ship,  O  ship  in  all,  your 
life  is  like  to  poetry  and  charged  with  all  the  majesty  of 
the  great  sea. 

Who  has  written  or  can  write  the  story  of  the  anchor? 
That  hope  of  safety,  when  through  the  wild  storm  the 
sailors  hear  the  booming  of  waves  upon  the  rocks,  and 
know  that,  beyond  subterfuge,  death  is  very  near.  And 
from  the  ship  prow  or  on  the  idle  deck  the  anchor  hangs 
or  lies  like  a  dull  thing  of  sloth,  until,  with  wave-drenched 
hands,  the  sailors  heave  it  into  the  boiling  sea,  and  wait  to 
feel  the  happy  thrill  of  ship  a-shiver  to  the  anchor's  grip, 
and  feel  the  thrill  and  call  with  boisterous  glee,  "She  holds, 
she  holds!"  and  the  surf  booms  on  the  rocks,  and  seas 
drive  over  the  lifting  and  the  falling  ship,  and  the  anchor 
holds  till  the  wild  storm  abates  and  all  the  sea  grows  calm. 
But  who  shall  write  the  epic  of  the  anchor? 

330 


What  a  glorious  thing  a  sea-cliff  is!  Neighbor  to  ocean 
and  to  cloud,  sung  to  by  ocean  waves  and  winds,  wet  by 
ocean  sprays,  bases  polished  by  centuries  of  waves,  lunged 
at  by  the  stormy  sea,  caressed  by  the  tides,  perfumed  by 
sea-breath,  crowned  by  heather  purple,  or  tufted  by  ragged 
pine,  or  pinnacled  by  bleak  rock,  folded  in  by  gray  sea- 
mists,  and  so  hidden  oft  both  from  sky  and  sea,  plunging 
downward  to  sea-depths,  climbing  upward  to  sky-heights, 
home    for    nesting    sea-gulls,    black    promontories    against 


OUTWARD    BOUND 

which  sea-driven  ships  hammer  into  ravelings  of  ropes  and 
slivers  of  mast  and  spar  and  plank  of  keel — sea-cliffs  are 
majestical.  About  their  feet  is  the  free  play  of  plunging 
ocean  surf.  There  salt  waves  tangle  into  spray,  and  rain 
back  a  million  opals  to  the  sea.  Sea-caves  drive  backward 
to  tunnel  the  island  with  music.  Sea-grasses  cling  along 
acclivous  ascents.  There  the  sheep-path  winds  and  the 
lambs  bleat,  finding  their  mothers.  There  gulls  fling  wild, 
raucous  voices  toward  the  sea,  and  samphire  gatherers  ply 

333 


"their  fearsome  trade,"  and  the  shore  of  the  sea  climbs  up 
the  black  cliff  side  like  sailors  rescued  from  a  frightful 
sea.  Sea-cliffs,  you  have  your  wonder  of  scarred  front  and 
polished  surface  like  a  porphyry  vase,  and  your  severer 
wonder  of  resistance.  You  menace  the  menacing  sea. 
You  meet  wrath  with  calm,  but  break  the  wrathful  waves 
to  feeble  water-drops.  You  answer  onset  with  repulse. 
You  meet  the  wrinkled  brows  of  ocean  wrath  with  a  smile, 
but  with  defeat.  If  now  and  then 
the  wild  waves  tear  a  rock  away 
from  you,  it  is  only  a  keepsake  you 
have  offered  to  the  sea.  You  stay 
and  stand.     The  hammering  waves 

*  curse  you  with  voice  and  fists,  while 

H^d  you  doze  in  content  as  thinking  the 
ravaging  waters  sing  a  lullaby. 
You  bear  the  brunt  of  numberless 
assaults,  but  are  in  nothing  wearied 
and  in  naught  dismayed.  You 
never  answer  voice  with  voice.  You 
are  mute  as  death,  but  are  impervious 
to  conquest.  "Thus  far,  no  farther,"  is 
what  your  mute  defiance  answers  to  the  sea. 
No  menace  can  affright  you.  No  charge  of 
all  the  cavalry  of  angry  seas  makes  your  gloomy 
might  afraid.  Across  your  lacerated  front  the 
centuries  have  writ,  " Unconquered  by  the  sea."  The 
brutal  sea,  how  it  hacks  with  its  cruel  ax,  ruthless  as  a 
Goth.  It  does  not  seek  equals  to  do  battle  with.  There 
are  no  equals  for  the  sea.  Battle  is  his  desire,  and  any 
foe  will  answer.  A  child,  an  army,  a  bridge  of  ships,  a 
braggadocio  king,  a  tiny  shore-boat  in  which  little  fisher 
lads  make  holiday,  a  huge  ship  made  for  an  armada,  a 
lover  and  his  beloved,  a  galley-slave  ship,  a  Roman  trireme, 
a  ruddy-limbed  bather,  a  baby  wading  out  laughing  into 
the  surf, — the  sea  will  harry  all  to  their  death.     The  curls 

334 


■JUICING 
IN  THE  SEA 


of  the  baby  head  float  their  ringlets  on  the  crystal  water 
like  a  curl  of  sea-weed:  and  the  sea  is  conqueror.  Great 
sea,  and  shalt  thou  bare  thy  wrestler  might  to  wrestle  down 
a  babe?  Shame,  shame,  great  sea!  But  he  is  frenzied  for 
victory,  and  cares  not  that  we  snarl  at  him.  He  ruins  fleets. 
He  sets  the  trireme  floating  helpless,  with  slaves  drowned 
chained  to  the  rowers'  benches.  He  breaks  the  slave-ship 
in  his  cruel  hands,  and  spills  all  its  black  freight  into  the 
an-hungered  sea,  which  gulps  it  down  like  a  drink  of  wine. 
He  hammers  drowned  sailors  against  the  jagged  rocks  till 
they  are  human  pumice  crushed  beyond  all  recognition. 
He  drowns  the  mother  with  her  babe  tied  against  her  heart 
by  a  white  arm  of  love.  All  are  pursued  by  the  murderous, 
rapacious  sea.  This  sea,  sparkling  in  the  sun,  racing  in 
riot  of  gladness  in  answer  to  the  wind,  purring  to  itself  in 
sheer  content,  and  then  with  smiling  look  springing  like  a 
sudden  arrow  to  somebody's  death.  O  sea,  O  ruthless  sea! 
On  some  fisherman  far  to  northward,  where  boreal  lights 
are  his  candles,  there  your  cold  sea-wave  mounts  and  leers 
and  lifts  its  wicked  crest,  and  deluges  the  boat-deck  with 
icy  waters;  you  leap  with  tiger  leaps  and  clutch  the  fisher- 
man, and  hurl  him  in  the  caldron  of  refluent  waves;  and 
she  who  loves  him  watches  for  his  home-coming  all  in  vain. 
A  white  face  staring  for  a  moment  into  the  dumb  sky,  a 
strong  arm  striking  madly  at  the  mad  sea  and  a  call, — a 
woman's  name  half  spoken,  and  the  name  of  Christ  shouted 
to  a  vanishing  wave; — and  a  woman  watches  on  a  barren 
headland  wiping  her  tears  away  to  look,  while 


The  harbor  bar  is  moaning," 


3$ 


and  weeps    her   slow  way   home    at    darkness,    to 
kneel  and  call,   "O  God,  my  husband — and  the 
sea!"  _ 

Yet  is  the  sea  beneficent.     The  rain  is  dona^ 
tive   of  the   sea.     The  snows  upon  the  moun- 
tain-peaks are  drifted  hither  from  the  sea.     On 

335 


OF  WRECK 


the  wide  ocean  caldron  is  brewed  health  for  the  world. 
And  the  sea  hath  tides.  They  are  the  pulse-beats  of  the 
sea,  the  tireless  wonder  of  the  tireless  deep.  Tides  are  the 
sea-answer  to  the  sky,  so  that  in  every  recurring  tide  is  the 
pathos  of  unfulfilled  desire,  the  pathos  of  soaring  eagles  with 
the  broken  wing.  The  moon  beckons,  and  the  sea  aspires, 
and  tides  essay  to  climb  the  shores  that  thus  they  may  climb 
the  sky,  which  thing  they  could  not  do,  but  this  other  thing 
they  did;  they  washed  the  stenched  harbors  of  the  planet, 
drained  foul  rivers  into  the  sanitary  sea,  swam  up  the  river 
ways,  and  brought  ill  health  from  inland  to  cleanse  it  in  the 
plunging  sea.  But  for  the  seas  this  world  would  die  in 
the  pest-house.  So  the  aspiring  of  the  sea,  while  it  can  not 
scale  the  sky  as  its  endeavor  was  to  do,  brought  service  of 
cleansing  so  that  its  aspirings  were  not  in  vain.  All  serv- 
ing comes  from  the  attempt  to  climb  the  sky.  How  the 
tides  run!  Along  the  shores,  up  far  inland  along  shallow 
streams,  the  tides  run  daily  like  a  happy  heart,  and  turn 
the  rivulets  and  river  to  running  uphill  toward  the  sky, 
and  muddy  river-beds  are  full  of  crystal  sea,  and  boats, 
lying  useless  hulks  like  wounded  birds  forsaken  of  beauty 
and  buoyancy  and  motion,  now  float,  like  unmanned  sea- 
birds,  to  the  lurchings  of  the  tide,  and  through  green 
marshes  run  the  thousand  silver  threads.  The  tide  is  ris- 
ing, let  the  land  be  glad.  The  breathless,  rolicking,  glee- 
ful, far-journeying,  unwearied,  happy,  happy  tides,  whose 
comings  are  in  truth  the  gladness  of  the  world! 

The  sea  is  sailing  room  for  icebergs,  those  ghosts  of 
the  sea.  Some  I  have  mvself  seen.  The  memory  of  them 
thrills  me  now.  They  were  full  of  poetry.  They  were  so 
far  from  home,  were  such  lonely  emigrants  and  blind. 
Stately  they  are  as  blind  Homer,  and  as  pathetic.  They 
are  going  on  a  pilgrimage  which  will  end  in  their  death, 
though  I  think  they  do  not  know  it.  I  hope  they  do  not. 
Some  of  the  bergs  were  mere  ice-boats  heavily  laden,  so 
that  the   decks  were  almost  or  altogether  on  a  level  with 

331  i 


AT    ANCHOR 


the  water.  One  stood  up  like  a  crag  of  crystal,  radiant 
with  light,  jutting  above  the  sea,  and  when  we  had  passed 
by,  and  the  sun  was  behind  the  berg,  it  stood  bleak  like 
black  basalt,  sullen  and  desolate.  Another  looked  as  it 
sailed  to  meet  us,  like  a  viking's  ship,  with  high  and 
stately  prow  and  stern  lifted  gallantly  from  the  water,  and 
all  a  sheen  of  silver.  This  boat  belonged  to  some  princely 
viking,  that  is  clear.  How  else  should  it  be  panoplied  in 
silver?  There  was  not  a  soul  on  deck.  No  man  was  at 
the  helm,  and  the  oars  were  lost,  and  the  dark  night  was 
settling  on  the  sea;  and  the  berg  floated,  not  silver  now, 
but  white  as  ocean  spray — white,  white,  so  white  and  solitary ! 
No  fleet,  no  following,  and  the  captain  and  the  crew  are 
slain:  and  the  boat  captains  its  own  way  across  the  mur- 
muring waters.  I  leaned  over  the  ship's  side,  and  watched 
and  watched,  till  the  forsaken  craft  dropped  below  the 
horizon  of  darkness.  One  giant  berg  went  by,  by  stealth, 
at  early  morning  (two  o'clock);  but  having  my  head  set 
to  see  the  most  that  might  be  seen  of  this  sight  of  a  life- 
time, I  was  on  watch.  And  as  he  walked  like  a  ghost  in 
his  white  garments  and  silent  tread,  I  was  there  to  see  him 
pass.     I   have    not   seen   many   sights    so    haunting   to   the 

339 


memory  as  this  silent  passenger  on  the  seas,  flitting  past  us 
in  the  night. 

One  other  great  berg  I  saw  near  at  hand  on  a  day 
deluged  with  sunshine.  As  seen  from  the  westward  side 
it  was  white  as  snows  drifting,  and  huge  as  a  dozen  steam- 
ers. It  flashed  like  living  glory  in  the  bewildering  light. 
The  chisel  of  the  waters  had  hollowed  out  sea-caves  in  its 
mountain  side,  and  at  last,  as  we  drove  on  past,  it  lay  for 
all  the  world  like  a  thunderhead  lies  along  the  fringes  of 
the  sky  in  summer.  To  see  this  voyager  from  a  far  zone, 
was  worth  a  journey  across  the  Atlantic.  I  can  see  that 
glittering  pageant  yet,  and  shall  see  it  forever.  That  is 
one  of  the  glories  of  the  mind;  great  sights  and  dreams 
stay  in  the  heart  for  all  the  lifetime  of  the  soul.  And  yet 
I  know  there  are  nobler  bergs  than  mine  eyes  have  seen — 
strange,  great  crafts  from  the  shadowy  North  bearing 
southward,  spectral,  many-spired,  Gothic,  crystal,  like  the 
towers  of  heaven,  scintillant  in  the  sunlight,  undeviating, 
skilled  to  crush  hapless  ships  that  venture  across  their 
path,  merciless  like  all  that  appertains  unto  the  sea, 
beautiful  past  all  artist  interpretation,  fated  yet 
undismayed,  part  of  the  mystery  of  the  sea, 
tongueless,  wintry,  desolate,  yet  journeying 
toward  the  city  of  the  Sun. 

There   are   days   of   storm   on   the  ocean. 
I    shall   never   let    the    memory  of   them    be 
torn    from   the   book  of  my  heart.     They 
were  days  royal  and  majestic.     To  see  the 
long  waxes  coming  from   afar,  lifting   up 
burly  forms  into  the  long  swell  of  a  hill- 
wide   valley,  in   which    brave    ships   could 
float;    high-crested,     across    which    ships 
must    run    with    staggered    motion;    wild 
waves,  which  broke  in  fury  over  the  deck, 
and  irothed  out  into  the  angry  sea  again, 
'hen  were  we  past  all  poetry,  "rocked  in 
340 


THE    ANSWER 

TO  THE   SEA  WIND 


I 


1-        V 


g 

THE    FISHER    FLEET 

the  cradle  of  the  deep."  And  what  lullabies  the  waters  sing, 
and  how  they  rock  with  tireless  foot  the  courageous  ship! 
When  the  sky  is  gray  as  twilight,  and  the  billows  stoop 
along  the  sea  as  if  their  shoulders  were  heavy  with  the  bur- 
den of  ships,  and  when  the  water  froths  and  billows  at  the 
ship's  prow,  and  the  long  waves  roll  on  across  the  sea  that 
makes  your  door-yard,  and  the  ship  sags  and  writhes  like  a 
living  thing,  and  the  wind  shrills  through  the  rigging,  and 
the  night  begins  to  blacken  all  the  sky,  and  the  brutal  ocean 
smites  his  huge  fists  against  the  vessel  as  in  sheer  pomp- 
ousness  of  brutality,  and  a  baby's  cry  mixes  with  the  hur- 
ricane, and  man  is  impotent  and  the  sea  is  omnipotent, — 
then,  O  then,  is  the  ocean  majestic!  And  Love  stood  on  the 
deck  and  laughed  aloud.  The  frenzy  of  the  ocean  was  mirth 
to  my  spirits.  On  stormy  nights  like  these,  my  ancestors 
fought  their  way  to  an  ocean  grave.  And  their  storm-sea 
makes  my  spirit  revel  and  be  glad.  But  who  shall  ever 
match  with  words  the  sublimity  of  a  wrathful  sea?  Shakes- 
peare felt  the  craze  of  it  in  "The  Tempest."  St.  Paul 
has  immortalized  one  storm  on  the  Great  Sea  over  which 
he  sailed  a  prisoner.  Conrad,  in  "The  Children  of  the 
Sea,"  has  felt  the  drench  of  omnipotent  and  furious  seas 
more  than  any  man  who  ever  breathed.  But  who  can 
measure  words  equal  to  this  tragic  wonder?  The  cliffs  of 
storm;  the  roar  that  silences  the  cannonry  of  battle  so  that 
you  could  not  hear  all  their  wild  anger  speak;  the  leap,  the 
green  fury  of  crescendo  waves,  the  turbulence,  the  disaster, 
the  hopelessness,  the  despair,   the  dishevelment  of  wreck, 

341 


the  planks  and  spars  and  dim  dead  faces  washing  on  the 
sea,  the  unmitigated  passion  of  the  waters  wrathing  against 
man  and  God,  the  waves  driving  shoreward  fast  as  the 
flight  of  stars,  the  crush  and  amazement  on  the  rocks,  the 
lift  of  spray  until  it  mingles  with  the  sky, — O  voice,  why 
vex  the  theme  with  words?     A  storm  is  on  the  sea! 

And  the  sea?  Truly.  The  great,  affable,  outrageous, 
angry,  laughing,  heartless,  surly,  captivating,  hilarious,  tem- 
pestuous, tyrannical,  brutal,  unreasonable,  baffling,  service- 
able, health-bringing,  death-dealing  sea  is  all  about  us.  Shall 
I  ever  tell  how  much  I  love  it,  or  be  weary  of  its  wonder,  or 
forgetful  of  its  mystery  and  majesty !  I  am  one  of  those 
who  hope  for  high  seas  on  the  north  shores  of  heaven,  by 
whose  margin  I  may  sit  on  quiet  evenings  while  the  angels 
sing,  and  listen  to  sea  voices  while  the  tender  undertone 
of  the  amazing  ocean  shall  make  a  melody  untouched  with 
tears  or  any  memory  of  death  in  its  solemn  music. 


THE  WHIRLPOOL   \\  ATERS 


CONQUEROR   OF  THE   SEA 


